


Pantheon

by Yahtzee



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: AO3 1 Million, Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Bath Houses, Deus Ex Machina, Drug Withdrawal, First Kiss, First Time, Gladiators, Male-Female Friendship, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pagan Gods, Pastiche, Rebellion, Reunions, Separations, Slavery, Virgin Erik, Wordcount: Over 100.000, desperate yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 131,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year 96 AD, all Rome is aware that their gods have begun to Mark certain people with their gifts -- the healing power of Apollo, the metal control of Vulcan, the deathly touch of Pluto, or the mental powers of Minerva. When those gifts fall to slaves or barbarians instead of the Romans themselves, strict control is necessary.</p><p>Then a gladiator from Judea meets an enslaved scribe from Britannia, and the repercussions will shake the Empire itself.</p><p>(Now with illustrations from the awesomely talented LooLooBee!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Life To Call His Own

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This is partly a fill for the kink meme - one person asked for an XMFC version of Kate Quinn's book MISTRESS OF ROME, and another asked for an XMFC version of "Spartacus." This story involves elements from both. 
> 
> 2) Roman attitudes are reflected here to the best of my ability, which means very different takes on things like how to treat animals, the role of consent in sexual relationships, and an appropriate age of consent for sex. (I didn't warn for underage because it doesn't happen here, but other characters refer to it without disapproval.) The warnings in the header should be sufficient, but be aware. 
> 
> 3) This being Rome, I'm afraid everyone has different names. They should still be recognizable, but here's a quick list (which will be updated chapter by chapter as more people enter the fray): 
> 
> Erik: Erichthonius  
> Charles: Charelius  
> Emma: Emeliana  
> Logan: Lucan
> 
> **

1.

 

 

He did not remember his true name.

His parents had given him one, of course, and although he could not remember the sound of their voices, it seemed to him that he had once known what it felt like to be called, comforted, loved. 

But his memories did not begin with gentle parents. His memories began on the day his luck ran out. They began with the fall of Masada.

Screaming. Weeping. Blood on the floor, on the walls. The smell of smoke. A woman taking a sword, kissing a man, then stabbing him through the heart. The same woman turning from that dying man to hand the same sword to another, who would kill her in turn.

Hands reaching down for him, ready to send him to death.

When he became older, he understood they had wanted to spare him. They had meant for him to die with his dignity and liberty, even though he was a mere child. They had meant for their suicides to stand as a symbol that the Jews could be defeated by the Roman machine only in body, but never in spirit – that they and they alone would determine their fates. He would have agreed with that, as an adult man, and taken the sword into his own hands. But at the fall of Masada he had been only a very small, frightened boy, and he had run away to hide. His hiding place had been a clever one, too. The Roman soldiers did not find him until the third time they searched the cistern.

He was sold into slavery, to an owner so miserly as to purchase on the cheap a child hardly out of toddlerhood and force him to be useful. Like most slaves, he was given another name – a Greek one, because Greek slaves were the fashion, whether real or counterfeit. From that time on he was Erichthonius, when he was anything besides “boy” or “you there.”

He was put to work at a laundry, collecting piss from pots all day, every day, so it could be left out to turn into ammonia. It was a task even a small child could manage, and one even a small child would dislike. The work kept him busy from sunup to well into the night, most of the time; the laundry owner wouldn’t spend the money to buy enough slaves for the tasks to be done. Erichthonius hoped that he might be given something else to do once he was older, maybe hired out to an armorer or a smith. That was as far as he dared to hope.

But just as Erich began changing from a boy to a man, his master died. His stinginess proved to have been the result of vast debts – which led to them all being sold off almost before the funeral pyre had cooled.

The other laundry slaves had not been his family; Erich remembered just enough to sense the difference. Yet they were the only constants in his young life, and it was terrible to see them dragged away, realizing they would never meet again.

But the worst came when he and a couple of the other younger men heard their buyer talking. “These ones? They’re for the mines.”

The mines. Everyone knew that nobody survived the mines for long.

(In the salt mines, they said, most men died within three years. But better those than the silver mines, where almost no one lived longer than six months.)

Erichthonius was sent to the copper mines near Aleppo. From the first moment, when he saw the withered, stark forms hammering away with desperate energy, he knew – the other slaves were not working so hard because they hoped find copper. They were working so fiercely because they knew it would bring their death faster, and no one in this place hoped for anything else.

Nor did Erich. He submitted to the leg irons and took the pickaxe he was given, hardly able to imagine what he might have done with a life that was his own.

And yet despite his misery – the near starvation, the unending thirst, the pens where they were kept like animals, the lack of anything that was his own besides an increasingly ragged strip of cloth around his waist – slowly he began to realize that he did not hate being within the mine itself.

There was something … pleasant about being so near the copper. About letting the metal surround him. It was the one part of his existence that provided any happiness whatsoever, and perhaps it stood out to Erich more strongly, because of that.

The other slaves scoffed at him the first time he mentioned sensing the copper near. He had thought everyone could do that, and so their scorn shamed him. Yet when he found rich veins of copper time after time, Erichthonius began to notice that others became quicker to follow his lead.

Months went by. Years went by. He remembered nothing but work, felt no pleasure beyond finding copper.  All the slaves who had been there when he arrived died in short order. Then all the slaves who had come around the same time he did. Then the ones who had come after him. They were all worn out, worn through, turned into rags and bones, then turned into corpses.

Erich grew stronger.

Over the years he became tall. Despite the miserable scraps of food they were given and the backbreaking toil, he remained healthy. His muscles filled out his form as they were strengthened and defined by years of endless physical labor. The same forces that broke the others down seemed only to give him power. For no reason he could name, Erich thought the copper had something to do with it.

 _How long must I endure?_ he wondered one night as he lay awake despite his exhaustion. They were bedded on hay, and not much of that; their “shelter” was ramshackle enough that he could look up through the roof at the stars. _Will the copper keep me alive here forever? Is there no escape from this place, not even through death?_

Then the word rose in his mind again, no longer as metaphor: _Escape._

It was impossible and everyone knew it. If you managed to break free and tried to run, the guards would cut you down. Miles of dry, deserted country lay between these mines and the city of Aleppo – and even if Erich did somehow manage to cover the distance without being caught, what would do then? He had no money, no possessions, not even shoes. He had no family, and not one friend.

And yet he could not put it aside, the thrilling vision of running free for once in his life. One last time.

If he could not live a free man, he could die as one.

By the last hour before dawn, Erichthonius was resolved. He had wasted his first chance at Masada, but he would not waste another. So he reached out, using his affinity to metal to touch and enclose the irons around his legs. He had loosened them slightly in the past, but only for comfort’s sake, knowing himself a slave both within and without his chains. It was glorious to finally stretch them further and pull his feet free. To watch them fall.

Erich slipped out of their pens, and at first thought he might make it into the countryside yet – were the guards truly all sleeping? How good it would be to have even one night outside that would be all his own …

And then the shouts went up.

The rock pounded beneath his feet as he ran, faster and faster. He felt the points of arrows zooming toward him – and he pushed the metal arrowheads aside, sent them flying in every direction but his. The soldiers shouted in alarm and wonder, and Erichthonius felt his face curving into a fierce, angry smile.

_You thought I was less than an animal. You will kill me, but before you do, I will show you how wrong you were._

Horses’ hooves pounded the earth behind him, beside him. Erich tried to tug the horses aside by the metal their riders carried, but succeeded only in flinging the guards’ swords far away.

One of the horses pulled back; apparently its rider panicked. But the other horse did not. It came closer, closer still – and then a loop of rope closed around Erich.

Worse than the fall onto stone that split the skin of his knees and face, worse even than the knowledge of his impending death, was the realization that he would die a slave after all.

 _Crucifixion_ , Erich thought as he lay on the ground, tethered there now by dozens of ropes held down by wooden stakes. That was how they’d kill him, on the cross. Usually it took a few days. He closed his eyes tightly against the misery.

With his power he reached out for the metal all around him, thinking of sawing through the ropes and forcing them to finish him faster; however, he could not do the more delicate work of removing swords from belted scabbards, or pulling free nails or coins to fashion blades of his own. It seemed to him that he _ought_ to be able to do it – that he could if he had learned how – but he had not learned, and would now never have the chance.

Yet when the head of the guards addressed the others, he spoke gravely. “We have all seen what this one is capable of. Can there be any question of what he is?”

“He’s a Jew!” protested someone from the back. “They’ve got their own god, just the one, and a useless one at that.”

“Sometimes our gods Mark outlanders, even barbarians,” the head guard replied. “No telling why, but then, no telling why the gods do anything. Do you all agree that this one, too, is Marked?”

“By Vulcan,” whispered someone very near. “If he controls metal, then he is Marked by Vulcan.”

The murmur went through the crowd: _Marked by Vulcan. Marked by Vulcan._ From his place on the ground, rope rough and taut against his cheek, Erichthonius could see the faces of those closest to him; their expressions were not contemptuous, but a mixture of wariness and wonder.

 _Marked._ Even in his isolated existence, he had heard this term. In the past generation, apparently, the vast bickering pantheon of the Roman gods had taken to marking certain people with supernatural gifts that mirrored those of the deities themselves. Some even claimed the gods were again having children with mortal women, as they had in more ancient times, and aristocratic families were proud when one of their own was shown to be Marked.

But Jews? Nubians? Barbarians from Germania and Gaul? Why would the Roman gods mark _them_? Certainly Erich had never sought their favor. And why would Vulcan show favor in this one way, while otherwise depriving Erich of any luck whatsoever?

Or was his luck finally about to change?

“Tie him soundly,” the head guard said. “Take him to Aleppo and tell our master what this one’s turned out to be.”

“What’ll they do with him?” asked one of the younger guards.

“Sell him for what he’s really worth, which is as much as all the rest of these wretches put together. He’ll sanctify any sacrifice in the Games, and put on a good show in the bargain.” The head guard laughed. “You’ve never seen a fight until you’ve seen two Marked gladiators go at it!”

The arena. They were going to sell him for a fighter in the arena.

So much for his luck ever changing.

 

 

2.

 

“Do you know, Charelius, I don’t think you’re entirely happy here.”

Her question was so naïve that Charelius had to keep back a laugh. “I am very fortunate to serve your household, domina.”

“But you aren’t happy. You aren’t!” Emiliana sat up from her plush couch so quickly that Charelius nearly whacked her with the metal rod of the peacock-feather fan he’d been using. “You know you can’t hide it from me.”

For all her youth and arrogance – for all that she had been spoiled by her wealthy, indulgent father – Emiliana meant well, at least when it came to those she liked. Charelius knew himself to be his mistress’ favorite. Granted, he was more a fashion accessory than a friend, but he knew she would never intentionally harm him. That alone meant he was luckier than most slaves could ever hope to be.

And yet he remained a slave.

He had been captured when he was 10 years old, so he remembered what it had been like to be free. At least he’d had a childhood relatively free of cares, and the memories of laughter and play in the green fields of Britannia, as he and his little sister chased each other through the tall grass.

But this meant he also remembered the destruction of his village, the death of his parents, and the horrible day in the slave market when he and his sister had clung to each other desperately until her buyer had lifted her roughly under one arm, tearing her hands from his.

He gave the most tactful answer he could. “I was thinking of my sister, domina.”

Emiliana’s beautiful face immediately fell, as if she were crushed. “You still miss her, after all this time, don’t you?”

“Eleven years, domina.” Who knew what his sister was like now – if she yet lived?

“Maybe someday you’ll find her,” Emiliana said. Her ice-blue stola fluttered slightly in the breeze from the balcony, as did her jeweled earrings. “You’ll see her on the street, perhaps, and if you’re working as a scribe by then, why, you might have the money to buy her freedom yourself. Or if you don’t – I know – tell me and I’ll buy her for you! Then you could work here together. That would be perfect, wouldn’t it?”

“It would be very kind of you, domina.” Charelius had cherished daydreams almost identical to this. But hearing the words from Emiliana reminded him of how fanciful such notions were, how unlikely such a thing was ever to happen.

Yet he had to hope, didn’t he? Without hope, he would forget to look for his sister, and he certainly would never find her if he didn’t even look.

He was already occasionally taking jobs as a scribe; his studies were progressing nicely. His first owner had been kind, as owners went, and practical too. As soon as she’d realized the intelligence of the Briton child she’d purchased, she’d packed him off to school. If he could be hired out for clerical work in adulthood, he could make her a great deal of money, and it was customary in such arrangements to allow the slave to keep a portion of his earnings. Roman owners liked to have skilled slaves buy their own liberty eventually – the price was enough to buy another slave to take their place, and the new freeman would forever owe his former master loyalty and assistance. Beyond that, Charelius enjoyed his studies for their own sake. It was interesting to learn proper Latin, then Greek, and to read histories, poems and plays. Back then, he had indeed been happy, at least as happy as a slave could be.

But then, in late adolescence, people’s thoughts began to … whisper.

Then speak.

Then scream.

Charelius hid it as long as he could, fearing the change in his fate, and also wanting to avoid the _amissiona_. Those around him noticed that he was increasingly distracted, but it did not hurt his studies; when the teacher asked a question, Charelius always “overheard” the answer, unless he tried not to. His inattention and moodiness were ascribed to youth, and he was teased by those who thought he must have a secret love in a nearby household.

Then, one night, as he was pouring wine for the guests at a party, he had seen a man look straight at the mistress of the house and think something so vile, so shocking, that he’d gasped and spilled the wine.

Even as his ear stung from the cuffing he’d received, he had found a way to draw the mistress aside. “Domina, that man – Senator Corbulo – you must not trust him.”

“The Senator?” She had smiled at him despite her obvious annoyance; she had known Charelius well enough by that point to understand he would not speak so out of turn without genuine reason. “Whatever do you mean, boy?”

“He wants to marry your daughter, domina. But he is not a loving man. He imagines – imagines beating her, breaking her bones, calling her unspeakable names and keeping her away from all those who care for her – ”

“How can you say such a thing about a member of the Senate? How could you know that?”

Charelius had never wanted to admit this. He knew too well what it would mean. But the time had come to tell the truth, for the sake of a young girl’s life. “Domina, I believe I am … I am Marked. The minds of others are open to me. I have been Marked by Minerva.”

In time she had believed him. As Charelius had known she would, his mistress had then promptly sold him – his former owners were noble, but not rich enough to ignore the enormous chance for profit. At least they had kept their daughter from that terrible marriage, and sold him to what they had thought would be a good household.

After all, what could have been more charming than a wealthy merchant buying a Marked slave so that his own Marked daughter could practice her gift from Minerva?

“You’re still awfully moody, I can tell.” Emiliana rose from the couch and gestured for Charelius to put the fan aside. “Your temper’s all gray and cloudy.”

“Forgive me, domina.”

She fluttered her fingers at him, making it clear that this was trivia they would dwell on no longer. Within her mind he could sense the need for amusement, diversion, fun. “Do you know, I’m getting ready to show off my other gift. I plan to debut it in public very soon.”

“Are you sure, domina?”

“Quite sure. Everyone will be wild with envy.” Emiliana smiled with delight. She was young enough yet to revel in the jealousy of others.

Emiliana – like many of the Marked – had been touched by not one god, but two. And while she liked her gift from Minerva, she did not practice it enough, because she took such pleasure in her gift from Juno Moneta. As Charelius watched, the gift swept over her, transforming her body from human flesh and blood to glittering, near-transparent diamond.

“The aristocratic wives love to cover themselves with jewels,” Emiliana said, turning that way and this to admire her shimmering limbs. “Imagine their faces when they see I can _become_ one.”

Even Charelius could see the humor of wiping away those prideful smiles. “I hope I shall be there to witness it, domina.”

“You will be. I intend to change at the next games. You can come along to wave the fan and watch it all!”

The games? Nothing Charelius had ever heard about gladiatorial bouts had awakened in him the slightest desire to see them. They sounded vicious, bloody and horrible. He wasn’t sure he’d even be able to get through it without being sick. He said only, “Thank you, domina.”

“So, see, now you have everything to look forward to. Brighten up those thoughts of yours!” Emiliana laughed, still seeing no deeper into his mind than she wished to see.

 _Thank the gods she does not know,_ Charelius thought. _Careless and young as she is, I think she would still shudder if she had to see it._

That night, just as he began to think he would be spared until tomorrow, he heard Emiliana’s father, Lucius Emelianus, call out, “Where is that boy?”

If only he had been out on some errand. Or asleep already. Every once in a while the master of the house would take someone else if Charelius was not available.

But he was here, and awake, and he dared not lie.  

“I am here, dominus,” he said quietly as he went to Lucius Emelianus’ room.

“There you are. Just what I need.” The master gestured impatiently toward the bed as he began removing his tunic.

Charelius knelt on the bed, hoping the master would only use his mouth tonight. At least that didn’t hurt.

But Lucius didn’t content himself with that. As desperately as Charelius sucked at him, as much as he tried to mirror and enhance his master’s arousal to end it quickly, in the end he had to strip and get on all fours, and bite his bottom lip against the pain.

“That’s a good lad,” Lucius Emelianus wheezed as his sweaty hands gripped Charelius’ hips. “Best denarii I ever spent.”

Slaves didn’t have to pretend they took any pleasure in this act; it was a small mercy.

But he had to submit, every time, without question or hesitation.

And his Mark meant that Charelius not only had to endure the physical side of it, but also feel the delight the master took – regardless of how Charelius hurt, or bled, or felt shamed. It was not that Lucius Emilianus took pleasure in Charelius’ degradation; he acted without malice or sadism, without any sense whatsoever that he was dealing with a person, and not a thing.

A _thing._

That knowledge wore Charelius down as much as anything else, making every night harder to bear than the last.

The master finished, slapped impatiently at Charelius to make him move, and settled back onto his bed to sleep. Charelius walked stiffly to the peristyle to wipe himself down.

“Took it hard tonight, didn’t you?” cackled the kitchen slave, who had no more manners than he did sense. “Look at the pet, waddling around like a duck. Come on and drink your _amissiona_ , then.”

“I’ll drink it in a moment.” He did not even glance at any of the other slaves as he made his way to the patch of grass and fresh air at the center of the house, where he could crouch beside the pool and wash himself clean.

Though sometimes he thought he would never be clean again

 

 

3.

 

“ _Amissiona_?”

Lucan held out the rolled herb he smoked. “You haven’t had a hit yet? Probably they’re making you drink it. Bitter stuff?” When the new recruit nodded, Lucan laughed. “Yeah, that’s _amissiona._ See, they can’t deny that lowlifes like you and me got Marked by their gods, but they’re gonna make damn sure we aren’t as powerful as the Marked nobility. So they get us hooked on this shit. Weakens our powers, in case you hadn’t already noticed. We’ve still got ‘em, just can’t put ‘em to good use, like making those bastards fight in the arena while we eat grapes for a change.”

“I thought it was only that I had left the copper mine,” said the new recruit, who went by Erichthanes or Erichthanos or some other Greek name his momma hadn’t given him. He was taller than Lucan, grey-eyed and lean, muscles in him like a bronze statue. His gaze was steady, even on his first day at the _ludus_ , which overwhelmed even those who had been soldiers before. Although Erich said he had never killed, Lucan could tell – this one could handle it.

He was harder before his first kill than some men were after their tenth.

Erich continued, “If we didn’t take the _amissiona_ – “

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Lucan said. “One day without _amissiona_ , your head starts to hurt. Two days without, you get the shakes. Third day, you might as well be a fucking dog for all the sense you’re gonna make. And it takes more than three days for your Mark to get stronger again. The stuff doesn’t just keep us weak; it makes us dependent on them. Exactly how those Roman bastards like it.”

“You’re not Roman either, then. Where are you from?”

For a moment Lucan remembered the deep forests of Gaul, the scent of fir trees and the white silence of falling snow. He said only, “Doesn’t matter where I’m from. Matters where I am. And I’m stuck here at this _ludus_ same as you.”

The gladiator school was not only for Marked gladiators, but their owner prided himself on having more fighters Marked by the Roman gods than any other, and staging the most inventive challenges for their talents. At the moment, two regular fighters – Thracians, both of them – were going at it with wooden swords in the center of the sandy ring. The other fighters were watching them, studying technique if they were smart. Most of ‘em weren’t smart.

Lucan took another puff of his _amissiona_ before he clenched it between his teeth and forced a grin. “So, Erich, which god marked you?”

“Vulcan.”

“We had a guy Marked by Vulcan last year.” Colossus had been a good kid. Nobody could have hurt him when he changed his skin to metal like that, and even on the _amissiona_ , he could always do it. His death in the arena had not been a defeat, Lucan knew; it had been suicide. Colossus had been gentle, deep down, and in the end, taking life after life had overwhelmed him. “You turn into metal like he did?”

Erich blinked. This one didn’t show surprise easily – guarded, cagey, good, that would help him – but obviously he hadn’t expected that. “No. I sense metal. I can control it.”

He held out his hand, and a metal helmet on a nearby bench rose slowly into the air, then fell again with a clatter.

“Not bad.” Lucan could already see plenty of ways that would come in handy in a fight. No doubt their master had as well.  

“They made me drink glasses of that bitter stuff every night of the journey. Now I realize why.” Erich’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at the tattoo. This one might be quiet, Lucan thought, but he wasn’t a man who would ever truly submit. He wanted revenge. He would always want it. His soul wouldn’t rest until he had it.

Lucan had believed the same thing about himself, once.

“What about you?” Erich said as the battle continued in the practice ring, over the cheerful obscenities the fighters shouted at each other and the clatter of wood on wood. ‘”You talk as though you’re a fighter like us, but you’re not tattooed.”

Erich’s arm bore the ink that would identify him as a slave gladiator to the whole world. Lucan’s arm remained bare. “I’m a slave like the rest of you, but o can’t be tattooed, or branded. Part of my Mark.”

“Which god Marked you?”

“Lucky me got Marked by two gods. Diana, for one. She made me a hunter. I’ve got a better sense of smell than any dog you ever met, which is pretty much the definition of a mixed blessing. But she also made me strong, and made me kin to beasts.”

“Kin to – ”

Rather than let Erich finish, Lucan simply held up his hands and – SNIKT.

You could tell a lot about a man, based on the first time he saw the claws.  Some guys panicked. Others immediately became convinced Lucan was no more than an animal, that he only walked and talked like a man.

Erich simply stared at the long bone claws for a moment before saying, “How did the Romans ever catch you?”

“Made a trade. Me for our chieftain. They’d seen me fight.”

“I wish I’d seen it too.”

Lucan made up his mind: Erich was a tough son-of-a-bitch. He wasn’t the type to make friends, but he showed respect and could be respected in turn.

Better that way. The last thing you needed around here was a friend.

Erich continued, “You must be a formidable opponent.” From the tone of his voice, it was obvious Erich was already evaluating Lucan as someone he’d have to fight. Might as well put his mind at ease.

“I was, back in the days when they put me into matches. Now they use me for a different kind of show.”

Erich frowned. “You’re not a fighter?”

“Told you I got marked by two gods. The first was Diana. The second was Apollo Acestor.”

_The healer._

Before Erich could ask, Lucan angled his claws and – without hesitating, without flinching – thrust one of them through his own thigh.

Erich’s eyes went wide with astonishment, and then Lucan couldn’t look at him any longer, because whatever else Diana and Apollo had given him, they didn’t see fit to make him immune to pain. He stared down at his pierced flesh, the blood streaming down his leg to puddle in the sand. Then he took a sharp breath and pulled his hand back. As soon as he had, he felt muscle searching for tendon, flesh for flesh, skin for skin, all of it healing faster than any other man’s ever would.

(It happened fast, but not instantaneously. He remembered what that had been like, to hardly do more than take the wound before it had healed. What kind of fighter he had truly been, before the _amissiona_.)

When the last of the pain faded, Lucan straightened and put the sword back on the wall. “No fun for the Romans, putting a guy in the arena when there’s no way for him to die.”

Slowly, Erich nodded. Most people, at this point, asked what Lucan was put in the ring for instead. Looked like Erich had more sense. Good.

The trainers pulled Erich in soon after that, leaving Lucan alone. Once he’d allowed himself to grow closer to the other men enslaved to fight here; Colossus had been his last true friend. But Colossus’ death had taught Lucan the price of friendship. Now he knew better. Kept himself apart. His only companion was the emptiness inside.

 _I like it better that way_ , Lucan thought as he took a drag on the _amissiona_.

He’d been telling himself that long enough that by now he almost believed it.

 

 

4.

 

The Flavian amphitheatre was called, by some, the Colosseum. Erich had thought that term was merely typical Roman grandiosity until he actually saw the place, and the tremendous statue that stood before it. He had not known human beings could build a thing on such a scale.

And somehow this achievement, this monument, was nothing but a temple built to worship death.

“How many are there?” Erich said as he peered up from the holding pen to get a glimpse of the crowd. He could only see a sliver of the stands, but the unbelievable roar above and around them was the loudest sound he’d ever heard. He could scarcely believe there were so many people in the world.

“Enough,” answered another fighter, one called Unus. “That’s right, waste your time looking at them. Makes it easier for me to finish you off.”

So, this was to be his first opponent. Perhaps his only opponent. Erich had not yet been at the _ludus_ for a full week, and he’d had only a few practice rounds. No chance to see Unus in action.

Yet the sword in his hand, and the armor on his body – they sang to him.

 _Why am I afraid?_ Erich thought, feeling his heart hammering within his chest as though it were trying to forge his breastplate anew. _Why should I care? What life have I ever had? Death remains my only escape._

And yet still he wanted it, this life he’d never had any chance to live.

 

**

 

“Isn’t it exciting?” Emeliana said as she took her place on the viewing podium reserved for senators, priests, aristocrats and the like. They had no right to it, as even Charelius knew, but her father knew how to flatter those even wealthier than he, and wrangle an invitation. “Still, the crowds aren’t so large as they are at the Circus Maximus, and you can’t sit with boys here. Well, besides you, but you don’t count.”

“Indeed not, domina,” Charelius said as poured her a glass of cool wine, watered-down to be appropriate for someone so young. No, he didn’t count. Every night Lucius Emelianus called for him proved that.

He could see others in nearby boxes staring at the two of them. It was highly unusual for a young noblewoman to have a male personal servant – especially a male personal servant who was young and handsome. (He’d been told he was handsome late at night, while her father fisted his hands in Charelius’ hair. Surely it was true, or why else use him so often?) Yet whispered questions would inspire whispered answers; after today, the few who did not know Lucius Emelianus’ daughter was Marked by the gods would have learned it.

“When do you think I should change?” Emiliana said. “Before the matches? Get it over with before I have to compete for any attention? Or maybe I should wait.” She frowned up at the enormous fabric sunshades that hung from canopies overhead, shading all but the very center of the arena. “When the afternoon sun is angled just so, I’ll sparkle more.”

“Better to wait, domina,” Charelius agreed.

Yet he found it difficult to concentrate on her, or anything else, besides the flood of thought and emotion around him.

The _amissiona_ dulled Charelius’ Mark; he knew that much. But he also knew that his gift from Minerva was more powerful than Emiliana’s, even dulled. When he walked along the crowded streets of Rome, sometimes he picked up stray thoughts, particularly when people’s feelings were strong. He had never been near so many people at once as he was right now, and at the Colosseum, emotions ran high.

Yes, the crowds were boisterous – energized by a sick, hot, twisting feeling that Charelius was realizing had to be bloodlust. Revolting as that was, it was better than the even sharper emotion he had begun to pick up from the gladiatorial stalls: terror, and the awful, desperate, futile longing to live.

He would have given anything to be able to help them. He knew he could not. All Charelius could do was try to accept that he would have to watch what was to come.

 

**

 

Erich had seen men die countless times. His memories of Masada were blurred by the passage of years, but in the mines he had seen fellow slaves succumb to exhaustion, disease or despair at least every week – sometimes every day. As he watched the wretches gasp out their last, he had told himself that a quick death, however savage, would have to be better.

Now he wasn’t as certain.

The wooden gates were rolled up. Unus swaggered out into the arena, comfortable in his helmet and armor; after a moment, Erich followed.

It was like being swallowed by sound. The roar surrounded him, consumed the whole world. Nothing remained but a wide circle of bloodstained sand, and the shifting, screaming, numberless crowd. He lifted his head higher, then higher again, trying to see where the hordes ended and the sky began, but there was no sky here, only brown cloth canopies that blocked the sun.

The trainers had told Erichthonius what to say. They had told him to speak to the Emperor, were he there, but Erich had no idea what the Emperor looked like. The most luxurious box, draped in purple, was empty. Apparently their deaths were not sufficiently entertaining to warrant the Emperor’s attention. When Unus simply raised his sword, Erich did the same.

An announcer held a sort of trumpet to his face and shouted, “Behold Unus the Untouchable, Marked by Mars!” This awakened fresh cheers from the crowd; apparently Unus had won many matches before. “And his opponent, Magnus, Marked by Vulcan!”

Magnus? He’d been told he’d probably be given a different name for the arena, but this was the first he’d heard of it. Not that it mattered. Not that anything mattered.

Heat baking down on the sand. Unus stepping back into battle stance. Screams and shouts, and no hope of any way out.

 _I will not die a slave_ , Erich thought, almost wildly _. I will not. I will not._

Unus shouted, “Come on, then! Going to stand there all day?”

Erich matched the battle stance and let the metal in his sword comfort him. Time to begin.

He made the first move, taking an experimental jab at Unus mostly to see what he would do. Unus dodged it easily enough, but he wasn’t fast, this one.  Erich’s eyes narrowed. Why would they call him untouchable?

His next strike was swifter and surer – but at the moment the blade came within inches of Unus’ belly, some strange, unseen force seemed to block it. Erich tried again, going for the shoulder, and it happened again. Unus laughed, and the crowd roared.

 _It is as though his whole body is shielded_ , Erich realized. _With some kind of invisible force like … like wind, or gravity._

How was he supposed to kill an enemy he couldn’t touch?

Unus came at him then, slashing brutally, but Erich parried the blows. He felt the metal in Unus’ blade as surely as his own; he knew which way the man would swing or thrust, could even push back slightly against the sword to take some of the weight of the blows.

(And a good thing, too – Unus’ Mark of Mars meant that he was strong, and even so muted, each blow landed against Erich’s shield so hard that his bones jostled in his arm socket.)

The crowds were all chanting “Unus! Unus!” They thought it was so impressive, that this man who could not be touched might win a fight.

 _I’ll show you what a real fighter can do_ , Erich thought. _I’ll show you what a Mark of the gods really looks like._

He backed away, far enough that Unus began to laugh and the crowd to jeer. Not so far that Erich couldn’t still feel metal. Then he held out his sword – and let it go.

It hung there in midair, awaiting his bidding.

The crowd went suddenly, utterly silent; the absence of sound was more exhilarating than any cries of support could ever have been. Erich felt his mouth curling into the grimace that served him as a smile.

With a flick of his fingers he sent the sword zooming toward Unus, but just as Unus raised his shield, Erich sent the sword lower – just beneath the surface of the sand. When it slashed beneath Unus’ feet, Unus lost his balance and fell to his knees.

The roar of the crowd welled up again, louder than it had been before. How cheap their approval was. How easily won, how easily lost, how meaningless. They would cheer as loudly to see Erich win as they would to see him die. But they would not see him die, not today.

As Unus stumbled back to his feet, Erich surged forward, moving fast enough that he was able to slam the rim of his shield against Unus’ before Unus could get in a blow. The impact of shield on shield sent Unus back a few steps.

_His Mark protects his body, but not what he holds._

Unus came at him then, and Erich summoned his sword back to his hand. As their blades struck time and time again, each scrape of metal like music amid the din, Erich concentrated on only two things: moderating Unus’ blows so that the force wouldn’t overwhelm him, and backing him closer and closer to the edge of the arena.

They were within feet. Within steps. Unus’ back was to the wall –

Erich swung wider, knowing his strokes to be amateurish and clumsy, but it didn’t matter. He could keep Unus’ sword from hitting him, and the trick was to get his stance wider. To get him to try and lash out with the shield, too.

Unus took the bait. He raised his shield, preparing for a blow, and Erich flung the full weight of his body into its edge. The shield jammed backward, the upper rim slamming into Unus’ head so hard that even over the crowd Erich could hear the crack.

For a moment Unus stood there, staring dazedly at Erich, blood welling from the shield and the indentation in his skull to coat the left side of his face. Then, when Erich stepped back, Unus fell – dead or so near it that it made no difference.

“The winner! The new champion! Magnus, favored of Vulcan!”

_Now I have killed a man._

Erich felt as though he should be ashamed, or feel grief. Yes, Unus had seemed to take pleasure in the thought of killing Erich in turn, but neither of them had had any choice in the matter. They were the Romans’ playthings, no more, and in killing Unus, Erich had done precisely what the Romans wanted. And yet he felt nothing but a grim determination.

_I will not die a slave._

Defiantly, Erich raised his sword hand. They would think he was celebrating his triumph. Let them think it.

He didn’t know when or where or how, but the day would come when the Romans would regret enslaving him. When he would put his Mark from the gods to better use. When the crowds around him now would stop cheering and start to scream.

 

**

 

“Can’t you fan any faster?” Emeliana protested weakly.

“I’m trying, domina.” But Charelius was as near fainting as she was.

To have been so near a man while he was dying – to have sensed that death – it was as horrifying an experience as could be imagined. Even to Emeliana, the impact had been stunning; Charelius felt as though he would rather have been killed himself.

“I don’t feel like changing into diamonds any longer.” Emeliana reached out to her father, who had barely paused in his politicking and flattering when his daughter had swooned. “Can’t we go home? Charelius can take me to the litter; you don’t have to come.”

Lucius Emelianus looked as though he were going to agree – but then his eyes lit upon Charelius, who realized he must be a sight: disheveled, sweaty, visibly weak. “We shall all go home,” Lucius Emelianus said, a dreamy, sickening quality to his voice. “So many better ways to spend an afternoon.”

Emeliana’s beautiful face lit up. “You are the sweetest and best father in the world.”

Charelius shuddered.

 

 

 

5.

 

As Charelius had anticipated, Emeliana insisted she never wanted to go to the games again. However, he had not anticipated that she would nonetheless take a great interest in gladiators.

“Think of how tragic their lives are,” was how she would put it. “They didn’t get bought by nice families like you, who honor a Mark of the gods. They just have to fight and die out there like savages. Of course I suppose some of them _are_ savages, as they are barbarians from uncivilized lands, but they can’t all be bad. I think it’s dreadful.”

“Dreadful indeed, domina,” Charelius said, with feeling.

“I don’t suppose we can save them all. People like the games too much, and I don’t see why, when everybody knows chariot racing is better, but they do. Still, I think we could look into buying a few of the gladiators. Don’t you? We could make Father see how prestigious it would be, to own so many Marked slaves.”

“A nice thought, domina.” But Charelius had a better idea of what it would cost to buy a Marked gladiator. For all the favor Juno had shown her, Emeliana rarely seemed to understand exactly how expensive her privileged lifestyle was.

Yet she also had her father wrapped around her little finger. Lucius Emelianus’ next big party was not just the usual dinner, but also a banquet to fete gladiators before they went into battle. Such banquets were usually led at the _ludi_ , not private homes … but money could buy anything.

 

**

 

Erich had never felt so out of place in his life.

He had lived in an armed fortress, in slave quarters so inadequate they would not even have been used for animals, and in the rough-hewn barracks of his gladiator _ludus._ This was the first time he had ever set foot in what anyone would call a home …

… and it was a palace. A temple. Surely this was not how any human beings could really live, not unless it were the Emperor.

He had seen wooden floors before, even a few of stone, but here slabs of marble set apart ornate mosaics. Chairs and couches enough for all to sit, and each of them carved, gilded, and cushioned with fine silks. The aristocrats wore silk robes brilliantly dyed to flaunt their wealth – sky blue, deep gold, the dark green of fig leaves. Wine seemed to flow like water here, and as often as he held out his cup, someone would fill it.

“Don’t let this go to your head,” Lucan had told Erich before the fighters left that night. “Every single one of those bastards is just wondering how much they ought to bet on your staying alive. Or not.”

Go to his head? Erich wasn’t such a fool. All he could think was that these people dwelled in Olympian luxury, thanks to the toil and suffering of those he had worked beside in the mines.

How many meals for the miners could have been bought with the price of this banquet alone? Thousands. And a good barracks could have been built too, so that at least they might have had beds instead of hay to lie upon as they rested between bouts of working themselves to death.

Erich felt his temper rising, yet knew it would do him no good. Unobtrusively he fell toward the back of the crowd, then made his way to the peristyle at the center of the great house. To breathe fresh air for a moment, to be surrounded by green plants and quietness: At the moment it seemed like the only luxury in the world worth having.

As he walked outside, he looked up at the sky. No stars to be seen – it was a cloudy night. Moonless. The only light came from the lamps within the home.

So it took him several moments to realize he wasn’t alone.

“I’m sorry,” came a male voice, cultured and pleasant. Erich peered suspiciously through the darkness to see someone rising to his feet; apparently he’d been sitting by the small fountain in the center of the peristyle garden. “I didn’t mean to be secretive. Just thought – you’d go back into the party in a moment.”

“Not if I can help it,” Erich said.

The other man laughed. He wore a coarse brown tunic, and a small bronze placard around his neck – a slave, then. “You don’t care much for that sort of scene? No. You don’t. You’re an honest man. But I can’t tell whether you hate dishonesty or simply don’t understand it.”

“How would you know any of that?” Erich stepped closer to see who he was dealing with. A young man – younger than Erich was himself, though he could hazard no more exact guess. He was not tall, though his form was so well-proportioned that he gave the illusion of more height than he possessed. The most arresting thing about him was his face – angular chin, dark mouth, and sharply defined brows above eyes so blue that they shone even in the darkness. “Who are you?”

“I’m called Charelius. A Latin bastardization of my real name, but as no one outside Britannia can pronounce that, I’m stuck with this. I’m used to it, by now.” He looked up at Erich with a stare so all-seeing that it unnerved him – and yet, perversely, also fascinated him. “And you … you were the one I saw at the Colosseum. I recognize you now. Magnus, right? Though I suppose that’s not your real name either.”

Erich shook his head. “You recognize me?” He would not have thought anybody could even see his face with that helmet on.

“Not your face. Your mind.” His surprise must have showed, even in the dark, because Charelius smiled. “I’m Marked too, you see. By Minerva. I can sense what’s in people’s minds, most of the time. So I knew you hated it out there – hated it so much – but you wouldn’t be beaten. Not by your opponent, nor by the Romans …”

Charelius’ voice trailed off, and he leaned heavily against a nearby statue of a faun. Only then did Erich realize the paleness of Charelius’ skin was not only because he was a Briton. ”You’re not well.”  

“I don’t sleep. Sometimes I forget to eat. Stupid of me, I know. But I’m distracted these days. Not myself.” Charelius laughed slightly as he pushed back his brown hair. “I’m not making any sense, am I? Don’t pay me any attention.”

Thus far Erich’s life had given him little chance to feel pity; he could not think of any reason why he should feel sorry for anyone who got to live in this house, even if that were another slave. And yet there was something in the shadows of Charelius’ face that cut deep, and awakened a strange, sympathetic pain. “Here,” Erich said, holding out his cup of wine.

“This is going to make me very silly, you know.” But after Charelius took a gulp of it, he did not become giddy. Instead, as he looked up from the metal goblet, his face became very still. The blue eyes were searching Erich’s now. What did he think to find?

Suddenly Erich felt very aware of his own humble tunic, his scarred and calloused hands, and his ragged scrap of a beard. “You’re better, then,” he said, gruffly.

Charelius nodded slowly. “I hope you get it.”

“Get what?”

“Freedom. One moment’s freedom, even if that only comes with your death. I hope you get it.” Charelius placed the goblet back in Erich’s hands; their fingers brushed against each other, a momentary warmth that somehow seemed to linger.

The words seem to rise from Erich unbidden: “And you. I hope that for you as well.”

“You’re kind. Or you could be, if someone gave you the chance. I’m sorry they haven’t.” With an uncertain smile, Charelius turned to go. But he kept speaking as he walked into the house, back to his duties. “Who knows what we might be if we had the chance?”

The question stayed with Erich all that night, through the party and the trip back to the _ludus_ and Lucan’s bawdy questions about whether any oversexed Roman matrons had thrown themselves at him, until he was lying in his bunk. Everyone else fell asleep before him, so it seemed to Erich that he spent a long time that night thinking about Charelius’ question. And the sadness that had surrounded him. And the brief, brief touch of their fingers before Charelius had turned to go. 


	2. To Have Found A Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated guide to names: 
> 
> Charelius = Charles  
> Erich = Erik  
> Emeliana = Emma  
> Lucan = Logan  
> Marina = Marie/Rogue
> 
> **

1.

 

To Erich’s surprise, in Rome he was more or less free to walk around as he wished. There were hours of training sessions most days, and of course he would be summoned to his matches, but he was otherwise at liberty to go where he would, even to spend the coins thrown to him in the arena after his fight.

(Originally he had meant not to take the money, but Lucan had laughed at him. “Guys like us shouldn’t act high and mighty. Look at it this way – those jackasses we have to fight for are literally throwing their coins away. You might as well be the one to take it from ‘em, right?”)

So he was free to explore Rome, which he found equal parts repellent, beautiful and intimidating.

Intimidating because the city was more vast than Erich had thought the entire world could be. The streets – all of them paved – were countless and wandering, and it seemed as though entirely new neighborhoods unfolded before him every time he went for a stroll. Enormous temples of marble and edifices of stone shared blocks with humble wooden shops and _insulae_ ; statues lined the main thoroughfares, nearly all of them bronze, the resonance of the metal rendering them magnificent. And the people! He had known Judeans and Romans, and Syrians too, plus a handful of Sardinians in the mines. Here, however, were traders, tourists and diplomats from every corner of the world. Erich could, in one five-minute span, walk past Greeks with their oiled and curled hair, Nubians with deeply colored robes and fine earrings, and Egyptians in heavy eyeliner and linen garments so thin as to be transparent. For a man who had experienced almost no society beyond the misery of a copper mine, the sudden array of humanity was bewildering.

Beautiful because Erich had not known human beings could live like this, that they could build temples and markets of marble that shone like the palaces of the gods. That it was possible to walk into a market, even as a relatively poor man, and buy a loaf of bread or slab of cheese– even freshly killed hares or the occasional fillet of wild boar for those who made a day’s wage. That instead of rags or armor, people could wear African cotton as red as blood, or wool from Gaul bleached whiter than the clouds, or silks in every color that could be imagined. (He, like most other slaves, made do with a coarse brown tunic.)

Their temples were gilded with gold – even the ceilings. Their Senate had tall, broad doors made of bronze enough for a dozen statues. One temple, the Pantheon, was so grand that Erich could only stand there and stare upward at a space so enormous and magnificent that he could almost believe these people’s gods were mightier than all the others of the world.

Repellent because the Romans were a cruel people, cruel to the bone. Their intelligence and sophistication had not given them compassion. He would say this for them – they were not hypocrites – they doled out no more sympathy to each other than they did to those they conquered. But could hardness be claimed as a virtue?

If so, Erich intended to claim it as his own.

In the earliest days, he often thought of escape. However, the tattoo around his wrist marked him clearly as gladiator and slave. Erich learned that no ship captain would consider taking him to Ostia to set sail; no wagoner would give him a seat. Were he to set out along the Appian Way on foot, sooner or later he would be stopped and questioned – probably sooner. Even if he made it to an inn, no innkeeper was likely to rent him a room. He lacked the knowledge to survive in the wilderness, and had he possessed it, there was no wilderness to be found for many miles in any direction. The bonds of Roman slavery were stronger than any leg irons; they were woven into the society itself.

After one early day of these wanderings, Erich returned to the _ludus_ in a foul temper. “What are you grinning at?” he growled as he walked through the door.

“Your sour mug,” Lucan answered lazily, between puffs of his _amissiona_ cigar. “By the way, you’ve got company.”

That startled Erich out of his mood. “Company? Who?”

“Beats me. Why don’t you go find out?”

Erich walked toward the area where he bunked, then stopped at the door. There, standing inside, was Charelius.

He had thought of Charelius often since their meeting three weeks before. There was no saying why, exactly; Erich spent his days surrounded by men condemned to die in the arena, so there was no reason the plight of a pampered house slave should have touched him.

Yet he had not forgotten Charelius’ haunted eyes.

“Magnus the Gladiator, Marked by Vulcan,” Charelius said formally as he held out a scroll. He smiled as he added, “Whose real name he keeps to himself.”

“Erichthonius. Or Erich.”

For a moment Charelius’ smile warmed into a grin. “Erich. An invitation for you.”

“Invitation?” Erich took the scroll in hand, as he was clearly meant to, but simply stared down at it. 

“Can you read? Never mind, I’ll explain. My lady Emiliana wishes to invite you to a party. She’s asking several of the Marked gladiators, actually. A bit racy to ask gladiators to any proper social function, but not beyond the pale, so long as you all behave yourselves. Four nights hence, arrive at sunset. Arrangements will be made with your trainer.”  

“Why should the lady Emiliana ask me to a party?” Had she been the flighty little thing with golden hair? Pretty and insubstantial as a dove’s feather, in Erich’s opinion.

“She takes a lively interest in the Marked, and considers it a shame that you should be consigned to the arena.” Charelius’ voice was graver now. “It has not yet occurred to her that she can do nothing to change your lot. Yet she would feed you. Amuse you, sympathize with you. She means well.”

“She’s a fool,” Erich said roughly.

Charelius stepped back; to Erich’s astonishment, he defended his mistress. “Emeliana is only a girl. The – larger implications – that sort of thing is still beyond her. Her good heart matters more.”

“ _Good heart._ Give me a Roman’s heart beating its last in my hand, and that’s as good as one of their hearts would be to me. Tell your lady to throw her party for some other breed she pities. Unless she wants that beating heart in my hand to be her own.”

“You wouldn’t hurt her,” Charelius said, but he clearly wasn’t sure.

“Would you defend her? Your _owner_?”

“… I would. She cannot be held responsible for the crimes of her nation. What little she can do on her own, as a young woman, she would gladly do.”

“If she can do nothing, she is worth nothing. If she benefits from our slavery, then her hands are as bloody as all the others’.” Erich stepped closer to Charelius, unable to understand his opposition. “And if she is so kind a master to you, why do you despair of your life? Why do you only wish to die?”

Charelius paled. In that moment Erich saw that he truly was weaker than he’d been a few weeks before – that he had lost weight, and slept little. The dark circles under Charelius’ eyes were nearly the only color in his face. Without consciously choosing to do it, Erich reached one hand out toward Charelius, perhaps to steady him.

But Charelius pulled back. “If you can be polite, not to mention nonviolent, you are still welcome to the party. Otherwise I shall tell my lady you were injured slightly in practice and unable to attend.”

“Charelius – ”

“Goodbye, Erich.”

For several minutes after Charelius left, Erich stood in place, wondering why a slave so unhappy would defend the Romans – and why his brain kept repeating the sound of his name in Charelius’ voice.

 

2.

 

 

Apparently Erich had some kind of hang-up about going to the fancy party for the Marked. Lucan suffered no such qualms. If there was a chance of better eats and better booze than he got at the _ludus_ – and for free – he was taking it.

The crowds usually didn’t throw money after his rounds in the arena, and when they did, Lucan was rarely in any shape to collect it. Free drinks? He was in.

As he considered that, however, he heard the _lanista_ call out, “New recruit! You boys will want to see _this_!”

It was unusual for their trainer to announce the fresh meat. Probably that meant this one was Marked, and with one of the Marks that was visible to the naked eye. Lucan walked into the practice ring with all the rest to see the trainer standing there, grinning ear to ear, carrying a wriggling bundle in a heavy cloth wrapper over one shoulder.

“What did you bag ‘em for?” Lucan demanded. Like the new recruits weren’t scared enough.

Instead of answering, their trainer said, “Now what will the crowds make of this one, I wonder?”

With that he dropped the bundle to the sand. With a flurry of activity, the new one threw off the cloth –

\--and Lucan sucked in a sharp breath. _A woman._

No. A girl, really. She was of marriageable age, but only just, if Lucan had any eye for such things. Then again, her ragged tunic was too big – she was slight of frame, and not tall as she rose shakily to her feet – all of which might make her look younger than she was. Not to mention the terrible vulnerability in her face.

He could see no Mark, save perhaps for the long silver streak in her dark hair.

The gladiators began to laugh. “Did you bring us some entertainment, finally?” one of them shouted.

She could not be a fighter. Female gladiators were banned by law from competing against men, and most audiences refused to watch women’s combat at all. That was rough entertainment for the provinces only. Why had this girl been brought here?

As she stood there, her dark eyes wide, Lucan told himself he should not care that she was frightened and alone. That he should not want to protect her. Anybody condemned to the arena was scared, unless he was a fool. Lucan couldn’t go worrying about all of them, or any of them. Not anymore. Colossus had been the last; he’d sworn it on the day Colossus died.

 “Come along, lovely,” another man shouted as he came closer to her. “Are you a dancer, then? Want to show us a dance?”

“What are they doing?” Erich came up behind Lucan; apparently he’d been the last from the barracks. “Throwing that girl in here is like – like throwing meat to wolves.”

It looked like it. But something about the trainer’s smug grin made Lucan wonder. He was even urging on the fighter closer to her, an unMarked gladiator named Mygdonius who always caused trouble, especially for their trainer. What was he up to with this one?

“Don’t,” the girl said, holding up her hands. “Don’t touch me, please.”

Mygdonius paid no attention. “I can show you a dance, lovely. Come up here and dance on my cock!”

He grabbed the girl. She screamed. Erich began to push past Lucan to defend her, but Lucan grabbed Erich’s arm.

“What are you doing?” Erich said. “Let me go.”

“Hang on.” Lucan had glimpsed something in the girl’s eyes the others had not.

Yes, she was terrified – but not for herself. She was afraid for her attacker.

The man who now began to scream.

Everyone stepped back. Some men jumped. Mygdonius still held on to her, but only because his muscles were locked in a rictus of pain. As he howled, his flesh turned gray and began to crack like parched earth. By now the girl was screaming too, trying to pull free but failing … until her attacker fell down dead.

(After a few years in the arena, you learned exactly what it looked like when a man fell dead.)

For a long moment no one spoke or moved. The girl stood there, trembling, looking down at the man she had just killed. Lucan saw one tear trickle down her cheek.

Then the whispers began. _Pluto. Marked by Pluto. Marked by the god of death._

Lucan had never heard of anyone being Marked by Pluto. Apparently Pluto and Jupiter were the only two gods who kept their talents to themselves, never sharing them with humans. But there was a first time for everything, and it looked like Pluto had found his one and only weapon in this frightened young girl.

_No understanding the gods_ , Lucan thought.

“Thought we’d need a display before you lot understood you should keep your pricks to yourselves,” their trainer said. “This one’s going to come in handy for mass executions. We’ll train her up, teach her to make a good show of it. And as for keeping a girl in the barracks, I figure she’ll be doing me a favor by finishing off any of you stupid enough to touch her after this. Now get back to work and drag Mygdonius out of here.”

As a few men hauled away Mygdonius’ corpse, Erich asked, “Mass executions?”

He hadn’t yet seen enough bouts to know.  Lucan explained, “Not every criminal is fit to fight. Some of ‘em get fed to beasts between the gladiatorial bouts. Others get run through. Occasionally they burn a few, but that’s so gruesome even the Romans don’t like to watch. Guess now they’re going to make her do it.”

“They want us to be animals,” Erich said, his voice a growl. “They want us to be worse than animals.”

Lucan shrugged. Hating the Romans burned you out too much if you dwelled on it.

He refused to pay any further attention to the girl, who found her way to a bench at the far side of the practice yard and sat there, severely ignored, for the next several hours. But as night fell, it occurred to Lucan that she had no place to sleep. The few smaller rooms apart from the group barracks were only for Marked gladiators who were winning regularly, though Lucan had earned one by sheer longevity. Even if the girl couldn’t actually be molested, those bastards would probably talk dirty around her, jack off in front of her, shit like that, and Lucan didn’t feel like staying up late enough to eviscerate them all.

So he went to her in the twilight. “Hey. You there.”  

She jumped, obviously startled; he realized she’d half fallen asleep sitting on the bench. Had to be exhausted.  “Oh. I – I’m not – you shouldn’t come too close.”

“I’m not gonna touch you. Trust me, after that little display out there, nobody’s in a big hurry to do that.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she pushed herself upright. “You should count yourself lucky I’m not in a hurry to touch you either.”

Not so young as she looked, then. That, or she had an unusual amount of grit for her years. Grit would serve her well here. “I’m called Lucan. What’s your name?”

“Marina.” 

Lucan went ahead and said the rest before he could talk himself out of it. “Listen. A few of us here have rooms to ourselves. Why don’t you take mine? I’ll shack up in the common area. That way you won’t be thrown in with those bastards.”

“Could I?” Her face lit up, before she suddenly became more guarded. “What do I have to do?”

“Nothing. You don’t have to do anything.” He found himself thinking of Erich’s words. “The Romans treat us like animals, but that’s no reason we have to treat each other that way.”

She smiled again. “Oh, thank you so – ”

“Don’t thank me,” he snapped. “Don’t start acting like we’re friends. Friends are the last thing you can afford now that you’re here. The sooner you learn that, the better.”

The brief light in Marina’s eyes went out, and for a moment Lucan could only think how scared she had to be, and sad, and utterly alone.

But in this place, they were all alone.

He motioned once at the doorway that had been his and was now hers, then did not look back as he walked away.

 

3.

 

Charelius felt as though he were sleepwalking through the preparations for Emeliana’s latest party. Increasingly he felt as though he were sleepwalking through each day. If he did not eat, and forced himself to stay awake as late as he could at night, the exhaustion dulled every sensation, every emotion. His Mark dimmed too, offering only occasional glimpses into those around him; after he drank the _amissiona_ , the Mark fell almost silent. Now, when Lucius Emelianus summoned him, Charelius did not mind as much, and the pain was more distant. If he cried alone afterward, he could at least tell himself that it was only because he was tired, so very, very tired.

So that night he moved dreamily through his tasks – readying the wine, lighting the lamps, looking over the work of Emeliana’s cosmetics and hairdressing slaves for final approval.

“You grow more lovely by the day, domina,” Charelius said. He would have meant it at any time. Now, though, through the haze of exhaustion and some stolen sips of wine, he saw Emeliana as a vision, ethereal as any of the Graces.

“They say not to trust a slave’s compliments, but my Mark tells me I can trust yours.” She dimpled as she studied her blurry reflection in the hammered silver mirror. “I should glance in the reflecting pool, too. Oh, I wish wearing pure white didn’t make me look like a Vestal. White is so flattering.”

She always found the very palest shades; tonight she was in the lightest green, like the new buds of spring leaves. “You look delightful always, domina. The preparations for the party are complete. Would you like to examine them?”

“I’m sure it looks fine. How did the stuffed dormice come out?”

“They smell delicious, but the cook singed the ears again.”

“That inept – never mind. Can you cover them up with some sort of sauce?”

“Honey would help. I’ll drizzle a little over the dormice and then you can take a look.”

“No need. I trust you, Charelius.” With that, Emeliana rose and kissed his cheek. The brief contact told him how deeply she meant that – how her fondness for him was simple and true. Any genuine emotion, even a good one, was more than he could bear. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to retain his self-control.

Composure restored, he passed dazedly through the first part of the evening’s festivities, welcoming Marked gladiators and performers of different sorts with the same blank politeness –

\--until Erich walked in, and suddenly Charelius awoke.

Propriety would have required him to immediately present Erichthonius to his masters. Instead, Charelius walked to him, drinking in the very sight of his face. By the gods, Erich had not only come to the party; he’d had his clothing laundered and bleached to look his best. He’d _shaved._

“No more beard,” Charelius said, by way of greeting.

“Well, you know. When in Rome.” Erich ducked his head. It was disarming to see a man so masculine, so powerful, acting as if he were bashful. “I spoke rudely to you when you visited me, though you meant only to do me a kindness. I apologize.”

Charelius had to think how best to respond. Normally, protocol and custom governed most of what he said and did. For Erich he wanted only what was true. “You spoke honestly. That is not impoliteness. It is a compliment.”

Erich hesitated, clearly wishing to say more, but at that moment Emeliana fluttered to their side. “Is this Magnus, beloved of Vulcan? I saw your first fight. How courageous you were!”

Obviously it took Erich a moment to summon a polite reply. “Courage was demanded of me, domina.”

“I feel that those who are Marked are clearly meant for a higher purpose than merely providing entertainment,” Emeliana said. As Charelius had known she would, she summoned her Mark of Juno Moneta, turning into pure diamond. Erich blinked, but otherwise kept his composure. “We are more alike than unalike, you see.”

Much later – after the first amphorae of wine had been drunk, once most of the gladiators were bragging to the noblemen and flirting with the noblewomen – when Erich found Charelius in the peristyle garden again, he said, “You did not tell me she was Marked by two gods.”

“She is greatly in their favor, it would seem.” Charelius sat on one of the stone benches, the better to steady his trembling limbs. “Then again, we too are Marked, and if we are in the gods’ favor, they have yet to show it.”

The moon was brighter tonight, painting Erich in silver light that revealed the slashes of his cheekbones, the broad span of his shoulders. “I wish to ask a question you might prefer not to answer.”

Charelius knew what Erich’s question was likely to be. He knew he should steer the conversation in another direction, or at least give an answer that was a lie. Yet he found himself saying, “Ask.”

“What is it that troubles you so deeply? It is more than being a slave.”

“No. Only one of the many burdens any slave might be asked to bear.” This was difficult to admit, especially given how Erich was likely to react. What was it about this man that made lying so impossible? “My master – Lucius Emelianus – he is a widower. Like most well-born men, he does not bother visiting a brothel to satisfy his lusts. Not while there is a slave he can summon to his bed whenever he wishes.”

There. He had spoken his shame.

Charelius had learned well what Roman society expected in such matters. Men who availed themselves of young male lovers or prostitutes were not dishonored, so long as they played the active role. But those men who played the passive role were disdained. The vilest epithet to call someone in Latin was _irrumator,_ or one who performed oral sex. 

Younger boys who serviced older men in that way were often excused by their youth; however, to continue to play a woman’s role as an adult man was both disgraceful and ridiculous. The fact that Charelius had no choice would make no difference to any Roman.

But Erich was not Roman. “He … forces you.”

“It’s not as though he’s violent. He needn’t be. I’m his property, and I must do what I’m told.” Charelius swallowed the hard lump in his throat. “Would you think more of me, if I fought back? If I chose to die a man than live a slave?”

“Stay alive.” Erich’s hand closed over Charelius’, so fiercely that his bones ached. “Do not let him destroy you.”

“I was destroyed the day they captured me in Britannia. Or the day my sister and I were sold to different owners. Long ago, at any rate.”

“No. No mere Roman could destroy you.”

“Why should you say that?” Charelius laughed, trying to make it a joke.

“I know it.” Erich’s eyes seemed to burn into his, and Charelius must have put off eating far too long, because his head swum and spun, just from looking at Erich. “Remember. One day as free men. One moment. We intend to have it, both of us.”

Could such a thing ever be possible? And yet – it could. Of course it could, if he saved his money. If he could endure, if he could think past his current misery, freedom might await him. It had become hard for him to remember that … but Erich had reminded him.

“One day,” Charelius said.

After that, neither of them seemed to be able to find any more words. Eventually Erich let go of Charelius’ hand.

_We must talk again. How soon can Emeliana talk her father into another of these gatherings? Not for several weeks, at the least._ “Do you –” Charelius had to stop and take a breath. “Which baths do you go to?”

“The baths of Agrippa. They’re closest.”

“But – the baths of Nero – they’re much nicer, really. That’s where I usually go.” He could feel his cheeks flushing with heat.  “This house has its own bath, of course, but that’s only for Lucius Emelianus and his daughter to use. The slaves have to visit the public facilities, at least those of us who can afford it, but we’re allowed time every two or three days. I go in the mornings, when it’s less fashionable, less crowded. When I can.”

The silence afterward stretched on so long that Charelius began to believe he had embarrassed himself. Then Erich said, almost grudgingly, “The baths of Nero?”

“Do you know where they are?”

“I’ll learn.”

 

4.

 

Like any other young person, Marina had hoped to learn she had been Marked by the gods. She and her friends had argued over which god would be ideal – Venus, some said, for incredible beauty, so that you could have your pick of husbands or even marry into the prosperous nobility. Ceres, said others, so that you could be sure of good crops every single year. Prosperity would surely follow. Marina had always been among those who said Minerva would be the best, so you would have the wisdom and insight to choose wisely in all things.

Nobody in her right mind would ever wish to be Marked by Pluto. So of course that was what she’d got.

Her family had panicked. Even now, Marina did not blame them for being frightened. That was only sane. But her gift could bring them no money, and the others in her village at the foot of the Alps became wildly superstitious about her, refusing to come near the house, or do business with a family so intimately connected to the god of the underworld. She had anticipated her sale into slavery for weeks before it happened – and yet had hoped her family might stand yet stand by her almost until the moment she climbed into the traders’ wagon.

Who could blame them? Marina killed with a touch; the _genius_ of those she killed lived on in her, a flickering flame. She was Pluto made manifest on earth, and who would dare to be close to such a person?

She lay awake late into the night. Most of the Marked fighters were away at some sort of party, of all things. Those left behind were laughing garrulously in their quarters, a sound that frightened her. The fact that they could not touch her without risking their own lives – well, it should have been more comfort than it was.

_Maybe I’m afraid of them because it hurts less than being lonely_ , Marina thought.

The room Lucan had given her was not greatly bigger than the bunk she slept on – a mass of stone that jutted out from the wall, but was layered thickly with straw and a couple of scratchy blankets. Hardly grand, and yet just the fact that she had four walls and a drape she could pull across the doorway now counted as a luxury. Lucan had even left her his little oil lamp, so that she might have some light after sundown.

Ever since giving up his room, Lucan had been rude to her, when he acknowledged her continued existence at all. And yet as she lay there, looking at the flicker of the oil lamp, Marina felt sure he was as close to a friend as she would have here, or possibly ever again.

It wasn’t saying much.

 

**

 

“Hold still!” The assistant attending her wore thick gloves, but still panicked every time Marina so much as moved a muscle.

“Sorry.” Really she wished the man would brush against her and fall down dead. It would be better than what she had to do next.

Outside the crowds in the Colosseum were roaring as the gladiators paraded around the ring to kick off the day’s “festivities.” Lucan, Marina noticed, was not among them, but she could hardly spare the energy to wonder where he was. Today was her debut in the arena.

They had robed her in black silk, so soft she might have enjoyed the feel of it under any other circumstances. Upon her head was a wreath made of Pluto’s emblems – narcissus and maidenhead fern. Sweat pooled at the small of her back, in the crooks of her arms and legs; her limbs shook, and her breaths came fast. The roar of the crowd outside swept over her again and again, like ever-stronger waves threatening her with drowning.

“You know what to do,” said the senior guard. “Wait for them, one by one.”

_Please,_ she wanted to say. _I don’t want to. I’d rather die._

But Marina remained silent. Nothing she could say now would matter.

“Behold, one Marked by Pluto!” the announcer shouted as she walked out onto the sand. Marina tried not to look up, only to walk toward the small wooden platform they had told her to ascend. “Her weapon is death itself!”

She stood there, trembling and thinking she could feel no worse, until she saw the prisoners being led before her.

They were of all ages, all heights, men and women both, alike only in their wretchedness. Marina’s throat closed as she tried to hold back tears.

_If I refused – if I ran back and began touching the guards instead –_

Nothing would change.  The guards would kill her with a trident, with arrows, or with some other weapon that would not require anyone to get very close to her. And these prisoners would still die, probably by being fed to beasts.

Marina squared her shoulders. At least she could make it quick. And at least she could preserve their _genius_ – their spirit, the flame of humanity itself.

As each prisoner was forced to their knees before her, Marina would put her hands on either side of their face. Pain would echo through them both, and the crowd would roar, but Marina would only be able to think of the spirit rushing into her:

_Juba of Tingis, who had murdered a man in a bar fight and had no idea how he’d let himself get so drunk, who only wished he might have seen the sea one more time._

_Marcellus of Firmum Picenum, who had spent the last few years robbing travelers along the Via Lata, who only wished he’d killed more Romans while he was at it._

_Similce of Baiae, who had poisoned her master and had regretted it from the moment she’d seen him start to choke, whose tears wet Marina’s fingers as she screamed her last._

Each one of them became a part of Marina as they died.

When the final prisoner fell dead at her feet, Marina stood there for a long moment, limbs shaking, mind overwhelmed. The crowd had by now fallen almost silent. Could she leave now? Was it all right for her to walk away? For the first time she looked up at the masses in the stands – and up, and up, there were so many – and they only stared at her, hating her as much as they had hated the criminals she had executed in their name.

Then the horns blared, and the guards walked forward, and Marina knew she could go. As she walked away, slowly the audience began to cheer again.

She wiped at her face, unsure whether the tears on her hands were her own or those of her victims. The thoughts clouding her mind were similarly murky. Over time, those who had just died at her hands would fade and become a part of her, but at the moment everything remained raw.

When Marina stepped into the chambers around the arena, the darkness blinded her nearly as much as the sunlight had outside. As her vision cleared, she saw Lucan standing there, shirtless and grim.

“Swift work,” he said.

Was that praise or blame? He had become so cold toward her. Maybe he had only given her the room because he disliked it. Marina said, shortly, “I hated being out there.”

Lucan shook his head. “There’s worse work in the arena, kid.”

Gladiatorial fighting, he must have meant. But Lucan wore no armor, carried no sword. He was all but naked – a brawny, starkly masculine figure, even among the muscular fighters of the arena, and yet completely vulnerable men who would have blades and shields. What battle could they possibly put him in and expect him to survive? His wrists were even bound with chains. 

The guards led him out then, and he walked between them, head upright. Although the attendants motioned her back impatiently – Marina’s part in this day’s slaughter was done – but she refused to move. Instead she pulled the wreath from her head and stood there to see what would become of Lucan.

“Next a re-enactment of the ancient myths!” the announcer cried as Lucan was led to the same platform and chained, spread-eagled, upon it. By now, having seen him sparring with others, Marina knew that Lucan was strong enough to resist the guards, maybe even strong enough to break the chains. Yet he lay there, staring up into the merciless sun, resigned to his fate, as the announcer said, “Remember well the fate of Prometheus!”

Other guards ran out, strangely costumed. They wore masks pointed in front, and cloaks decorated with feathers, and in their hands they carried long poles tipped with vicious metal hooks …

_Lucan – he is Prometheus_ , Marina realized with a cold rush of recognition. _Those are the eagles._

The rest was a blur. Marina knew she had tried to run forward at one moment, but then her knees had given out from under her. She remembered the way the eagles had circled Lucan, slashing his skin open time and again until their hooks shone with blood, and how Lucan’s skin had healed over and over. How he had shouted in pain when they finally dug the hooks in –

\--the sick wet gleam of his entrails laid bare, and his liver speared and held aloft from his quaking body—

\--and how he had healed yet again despite his terrible hoarse screams.

Nausea overcame Marina, and she pitched down onto the ground, vomiting weakly against the stones.

At the end of the day’s gruesome displays, when they went back to the _ludus_ , the guards – apparently unaware of the change – dumped Lucan back in his old room. He remained unable to walk. Marina thought he ought to have the bed that night at least, but she also thought he might want the oil lamp.

As she walked inside with a bit of smoldering moss from the cooking fire, Lucan grunted, “I’m gettin’ up.”

“No. No, don’t. I just wanted to bring some light for you.”

Within the shell of her cupped hands, the little flame flickered into life. Marina looked back at him lying there, the powerful muscles of his indestructible body at odds with his pallor. They regarded each other in silence.

Finally he said, “Before the _amissiona_ – I could’ve shaken that off in minutes. Wouldn’t have been a damn thing to me. And I still want that shit. I hate it and I want it. Even knowing it’s going to make me bleed just as bad next time. I want it.”  

Marina went to the pouch on his belt– careful of his arms – and pulled out one of the _amissiona_ cigars. She lit it at the oil lamp, then carefully lowered the cigar so he could clamp it in his jaws. Lucan sucked it in, breathed out the smoke, and said nothing.

When she could bear the silence no longer, she said, “Is that what they do to you every time? Make you play Prometheus?”

“Nah. They come up with new shows. Can’t bore the crowds; gotta keep ‘em entertained.” Lucan’s eyes remained fixed on the low wooden beams of the ceiling. “I play Vercingetorix, so they can strangle me for a gladiator playing Julius Caesar. Or they’ll set five or six or eight gladiators on me at once, because that’s how many it takes to bring me down. Or they feed me to beasts. Doesn’t matter, as long as it hurts. They just want to hear me scream, and know I have to take it. That’s all.”

There came a moment in a person’s death – a moment that Marina, perhaps alone among all human beings, knew well – one where the terrible fight, the deep and desperate _no_ , shifted into _yes_. A moment where people finally accepted their death with at least resignation and sometimes even relief. Marina looked for it, because she knew it was the true end; also, that moment provided the only consolation for her as well as for those she killed. Now she knew that Lucan endured all the suffering of a thousand deaths without ever once having that moment of comfort.

Young as she was, she knew better than to try to soothe Lucan with words. She simply nodded, letting him know she understood.

It must have been the right thing to do, because after a moment he said, “How about you? You all right?”

“They’re still inside my head.”

At that he turned his head, to give her a look.

She’d never explained this to anyone else, but it felt like the time to begin. “When I touch someone, part of their _genius_ comes into me. Their thoughts. Their feelings. I have them too for a while. So I know every person I kill.”

Lucan considered that in silence, then said, “Fuckin’ Romans.”

“Yeah.”

“I meant what I said. I can get up in a second, give you back your bed.”

“Not tonight, Lucan. You should be comfortable.”

“Forget me. Doesn’t matter where I sleep; I’ll be the same tomorrow. But you can’t be in there with those thugs.”

Although Marina wanted to protest, she really was in no hurry to endure the endless vulgarity of the other soldiers. So she took one of the blankets from the pile. “I’ll make a nest. Down here. See?”

Clearly Lucan wanted to argue, but exhaustion won out. She made a little pallet on the other side of the room, which was only a few feet away, close enough to hear him snore.

All Marina’s life, she had slept in the same hut with her parents and siblings. She had always gone to sleep to the sound of snoring. It was … comforting.

_As close as either one of us has to a friend_ , she thought as she began to drift off to sleep. _I guess we’ll both have to make do._

 

5.

 

Despite his initial success in the arena, Erichthonius learned to his surprise that he was not to fight again soon.

“Can’t let ‘em get too used to you yet,” the _lanista_ said as he threw Erich into yet more practice. “Not until you can fight worth a damn.”

Erich was glad to be spared the arena – both the requirement to kill and the fear of being killed – but gladiator training was grueling work, even for one who had slaved in a copper mine. For long hours he would run a course that made him leap over stones, then hurdle several benches, then hang from ropes suspended from nearby roofs.  Or he might be tethered to a fighting dummy, a leather form of a man with mace and blade jutting from it, and made to strike at the thing even knowing that each blow would just bring it whirling around to him again. The _lanista_ even had a contraption that could be set to spinning – a pole with high and low bars sticking out. On each rotation, Erich would have to jump, then duck, then jump and duck again, over and over.

His time in the mines had built muscle, but he’d remained wiry, as there had never been much food. Here, at least, the _lanista_ made sure to bulk them up. While the stews they were given were mostly beans and salt, they provided more fuel than most of the meals Erich had eaten in his life.

He might have spent a few more of the coins he’d earned during his one fight in the arena – gone back to the market and bought himself a hare. But he saved his money now.

It was important to be able to pay admission to the baths of Nero.

On his third visit, finally – “Hello there,” Charelius called, jogging toward him as Erich stood at the door. “I’m glad you came. I hardly dared look for you, but – well. Here you are.”

“Here I am.” Why was it so important to pretend they weren’t so happy to see each other? Erich knew Charelius was no more fooled than he was.

Maybe this was what it was like to have a friend, a real friend. He’d never had one before. Maybe it was normal for friends to seek each other’s company, to laugh off the importance of it even as they smiled at one another. Maybe friends always felt as though the sun were shining on them when they were together, even if they were indoors.

That was how he felt when he saw Charelius. So, at last, he had a friend.

The baths of Agrippa had seemed grand to Erich when he first went to them – and when he’d never had a proper bath. The laundry, naturally enough, had had its own supplies of water and soap, so as a child he’d been scrubbed there; in the mines, occasionally buckets of the guards’ old bathwater had been thrown over them, mostly so that their smell would not be overly offensive to those who wielded the whips. So the baths of Agrippa had been his first experience of hot and cold pools of water, of pegs to hang his clothes alongside the rags of near-beggars and the fine white tunics of senators, of the incredible variety of bodies on display – gawky youths, portly old men and everything in between.

The baths of Nero were something else altogether.

Walls of polished stone – a frigidarium so enormous that men could swim in it, not just soak – murals depicting Neptune and the Nereids: Every inch of the enormous place was beautiful, as though it were a temple to cleanliness. The air itself smelled pleasantly of bath oils and steam.

Yet above all Erich found himself noticing Charelius’ naked body.

Charelius was not so muscled as the gladiators were, or as the miners had been – yet he was fit, compact, pleasingly made. His skin was far less weathered than Erik’s own, fair like all the Celts, and slightly freckled. Even more appealing were the firm set of Charelius’ hips, the strong lines of his legs –

Was it wrong to look at his friend so much? But Charelius looked too.

When he realized Erich was watching, Charelius said simply, “Forgive me – I don’t mean to stare. I’d heard you Jews did this, but … I’d never actually _seen_ it before.”

“Of course.” In Erich’s earlier life, he’d always had other Jewish slaves near him, but in this bathhouse, he was the only man among hundreds who had been circumcised. It did not bother him, but no wonder Charelius found it of interest. Hopefully that had been more noteworthy than the fact that he’d been half-erect.

Charelius even peered a little more closely as they sank into the hot baths. “Does it hurt?”

“No. I suppose it did when it was done, but I was a baby then. Don’t remember a thing.”

“And it’s the same when you have sex?”

“… I wouldn’t know.”

At that Charelius laughed. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’ve never had sex with a foreskin, so you could hardly compare it to sex without. I’m being stupid.”

That brought up other questions – matters Erich would like to discuss with a friend, eventually – but this didn’t seem like the moment. They settled in to soak side by side, and Erich said only, “You seem in better spirits today.”  

Charelius ducked his head, as if shy. “I’ve had something to look forward to.”

_Me. He means me._ So friends did admit that they were excited to see each other. Why should that make him so happy? Erich couldn’t understand it, and yet it was all he could do to keep from grinning like a fool.

And a fool he would be, if only the prospect of a friend would make him forget the miserable situation in which he and Charelius were both trapped. They remained slaves. Charelius remained the plaything of a wealthy man who did not care how he tormented him; Erich would have to fight for his life, over and over, until he lost. To this they were both inescapably sentenced, despite the fact that they had been shown the favor of the gods themselves.

“You’re angry again,” Charelius said quietly. It seemed his Mark still glimmered through at times, despite the _amissiona_. “As angry as you were that day I invited you to the party.”

“How can you not be angry? Given our lot in life.”

“Fortune favors only a few. Most people can expect nothing but toil, travail and death. It has ever been so, and ever will be.”

Erich looked over at Charelius then, studying his blue eyes carefully. “You say that, because it’s what you think you should say. But you don’t believe it.”

Instead of replying immediately, Charelius considered his next words for long moments. Water dripped from his damp-dark hair; Erich watched one droplet make its way down Charelius’ temple and cheek, and imagined tracing its course with his fingertip.  That reverie ended only when Charelius finally spoke. “I do believe it, actually. But I hope anyway.”

“What do you hope for?”

“Freedom, of course. I have a chance to earn it, eventually, though it will take time.” Charelius paused. “Emilianus … he’s not so fixated on me that he wouldn’t let me go eventually. When I get a little older, or he buys someone prettier – but that’s a horrible thing to hope for.”

Didn’t Erich hope every Marked gladiator he fought would prove weaker than himself? “That’s the situation they put us in. Where we have to hope for each other’s misfortunes instead of our own.”

Charelius’ glanced over at the nearest soakers, two older men engaged in a fierce debate about grain prices, in tones that suggested they were powerful enough to do something about the situation. The point was silently made: _Be careful. You can say a great deal here, but there are limits._ “I also hope someday to find my sister again, and buy her too. Absurd. She could be in … Lusitania. Egypt. Anywhere. We haven’t been together since we were children. I might not even recognize her if I did see her.” He swallowed hard, and his smile was tight. “But I hope. That is my nature, and my curse. To hope.”

“Mine is to fight,” Erich said.

When they were done bathing in the hot water, they each applied some of the oils and took turns scraping each other clean with strigils. This skill was new to Erichthonius, but it was remarkable how invigorating it felt to be so clean, to have every inch of his skin tingling – and to know he had made Charelius feel that way as well.

As he worked his way along Charelius’ back, Erich said, “I’m surprised your owner gives you money for the baths. And the time off, too.”

Charelius chuckled. “Think about it. Not much good going to the baths yourself if you’re surrounded by people who never go at all, and smell like it. Some of the more menial slaves at the house have to make do with the family’s old bathwater, but those of us who are allowed outside work have a little money of our own. And I usually have a couple of hours to myself a few mornings a week.”

“They give us too much time,” Erich grumbled, wiping the strigil clean before giving it to Charelius. As the edge began moving down his arms, even Charelius’ fingertips against his skin could not erase Erich’s anger. “We practice seven hours a day, and other than that, what? We’re meant to spend our coins drinking wine or hiring whores, to kill the time until we fight or die.”

The scraping paused; Charelius looked up into his eyes. “I know it’s hard,” he said quietly. “But if you fought more, you would only be in danger more often. If you cannot be glad of that for your own sake, then be glad for mine.” He smiled unevenly. “I worry, you see.”

“You needn’t.” Being surrounded by metal more often was giving Erich yet more control. He damned the _amissiona_ daily – without it, by now, he knew he would be far more skillful. Yet he had advanced nonetheless. By way of demonstration, Erich flicked his finger, and the strigil rose from Charelius’ fingers to hover between them. Charelius’ face lit up in delight, and Erich could smile again. “I can take care of myself.” 

“I see you practice,” Charelius said. “Good. Spend more time on that than on the whores, would you? One might be more fun, but the other keeps you alive.”

Was Erich imagining it, or was there strain behind Charelius’ joke?

Imagination, probably, because Charelius snatched the strigil from thin air to finish up Erich’s arms – and because the strain he felt was no doubt his own.

A handful of prostitutes came directly to the _ludus_ : some women and one boy who had standing arrangements with the trainers and a few gladiators. But the majority of the gladiators did their whoring at nearby brothels, and they had invited Erich to join in. Thus far he had not. He told himself that he wished to save his money – for the baths, for better food and for other purposes he might yet discover. Also he enjoyed occasionally spending time with Lucan, who while not a friend was nonetheless willing to play the occasional game of dice.  

Yet the main reason Erich did not go to the brothels was because he had no idea what to do there.

He hadn’t seen a woman from before puberty until his trip into Aleppo to be sold as a gladiator. Hadn’t laid eyes on a single one. Nobody had taken him for a pet when he was a young boy – small wonder, as he had spent every day splashed with urine if not soaked by it. And while men had occasionally masturbated in the mining camp, himself included, this was very, very rare; unceasing, grueling labor combined with near-malnutrition had deprived the slaves of even their most basic human desires, beyond anything but the need to eat and sleep.

Erich had never had sex. Had never been kissed. Hadn’t so much as been touched with affection since he was very small –

\--except now, when Charelius playfully toweled his hair.

Everyone said the baths were teeming with thieves and pickpockets, but no doubt the criminals devoted their attention to those whose belongings demonstrated more wealth. Their nut-brown tunics were precisely where they’d been left, as was Charelius’ placard necklace proclaiming him the property of Emilianus. No one would be fool enough to steal the tokens of slavery.

“What’s next for you today?” Erich said, hoping against hope that Charelius would still be free. They could go to the _ludus_ , collect the money Lucan was keeping for Erich, and Erich could treat them both to a proper lunch.

But that was the stuff of daydreams, as Charelius’ answer proved. “I’ve got lessons for the next couple of hours – they’re training me in shorthand. It’s a way to write Latin more quickly, so the speeches of rhetoricians can be properly transcribed. Then I’m to attend Emeliana as she visits her society friends, which makes for a long afternoon, but probably not unpleasant. Afterward she and I will gossip about what we learned from the minds of her hostesses. Then –” Charelius faltered as he adjusted his belt.  “Then Lucius Emelianus will return home, and beyond that, I’ll have to see.”

The thought of the prideful lord of the house using Charelius as he would – hurting him, with no regard for his feelings – it burned within Erich, all the more hotly for the knowledge that he could do nothing about it.

Charelius, too, obviously accepted his fate. “And for you?”

“Practice in the afternoon. Until then – I thought I might walk to the Pantheon again.”

“A beautiful place. But why do you go there? You still have your Judean god, don’t you?”

Erich supposed he did, though he knew little enough of the Hebrew faith; his parents had not lived long enough to instruct him. “I don’t go to worship. Just to – to try to understand these Roman gods, the ones who have Marked us. If I could understand their purpose – ”

“No one has ever understood the purposes of the gods.” But Charelius’ smile was kind. “We’ll meet here again? Maybe in two days’ time?”

“Yes. Let’s.”

“Good,” Charelius said as they walked out into the crowded street. By now it was mid-morning, warming up. The street vendors were hawking their wares, and traffic crowded that way and this: slaves bearing amphorae, working-class women chatting to one another, a handful of off-duty praetorians laughing too loud, and one aristocratic litter being borne aloft by four sturdy men. “I’ll look forward to it.”

That simple phrase seemed to mean so much. Erich nodded. “So will I.”

Charelius smiled over his shoulder as he walked into the crowd, became part of it, disappeared into it. Erich stood there in front of the baths, his damp hair cool against the warm sun, a stupid smile on his face.

Was this what it felt like to have a friend? Perhaps. Surely friendship could be precious.

And yet, ignorant of human connection as he was, untouched and unloved, Erich still realized that his body and heart were enthralled by more than mere friendship. How much more, only time would say.

Now he had something to fight for: Time. 


	3. Only Eternity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our Roman names list gets a bit longer: 
> 
> Charelius = Charles  
> Erich = Erik  
> Emeliana = Emma  
> Marina = Marie/Rogue  
> Junia = Jean Grey  
> Bestius = Hank McCoy/Beast
> 
> **

1.

 

Charelius could not help but hope. It was his nature. Yet he tried to keep his hopes realistic.

It was realistic to hope of buying his freedom someday. It was unrealistic to hope that this would happen while he was still very young, or that he would be one of the rare freedmen who would go on to wealth and influence of his own. It was realistic to imagine his own flat in a well-run _insula_ , where his neighbors would become a sort of extended family, with whom he might celebrate holidays and share the occasional meal. It was unrealistic to think of ever returning to Britannia.

Having enough money someday to buy his sister’s freedom: optimistic, but not delusional. Actually finding his sister, so that he might buy her: Unlikely in the extreme, though he would never stop wishing.

On the very verge of his dreams – not likely, but not impossible either – was the prospect of earning enough money to marry and raise a family.

As a freedman he could not expect to marry any woman who would bring much of a dowry. More than likely he would remain childless. Yet he had allowed himself, from time to time, to hope so far as having a family – of recreating the happy atmosphere he had grown up in, where love had been so abundant that he had never questioned what life would be like without it.

Charelius had learned what that was like in the past fifteen years.

Still –

 _Better to have no love than to fall in love with a gladiator_ , he told himself as he hurried through the streets near the Forum Magnum.

Yes, he and Erich had become friends – good friends – this past month, meeting at the baths every morning they could manage, talking and soaking side by side. Now that summer was coming, clerical work was slowing as people began to go on holiday to the seaside at Baiae or Tibur. Eventually his family would go as well, but they’d made no plans yet. Thus even Charelius could expect to have a bit more free time for the next few weeks. He had dreamed of taking Erich to the chariot races …

… but that was the problem. He had dreamed of Erich.

The images flooded Charelius’ mind, overcoming him so that he could hardly continue walking: Erich in the gladiatorial ring, fighting for his life. A sword thrust slicing into that powerful body and rendering him helpless. The crowd crying out for death instead of mercy –

 _I cannot bear it_ , Charelius thought.

Then another voice in his head said, _You love him so._

In the first moment, Charelius wondered if he were going mad. Then his eyes widened as he realized that this – this was what it was like when two people Marked by Minerva spoke without words.

Emeliana still did not practice enough for such skill. Who had heard him?

 _The Temple of Vesta_ , she said. By now he could tell she was a she; it even seemed to him that he could sense her excitement. _I’ll be waiting for you on the steps._

He was very near the Temple of Vesta, so he hurried to it, eager to see whom he might meet. Anyone might have business in that area of the Forum, but as he ascended the steps, he realized he had not come to meet another visitor to the temple.

The woman who stood on the steps, waiting for him, was none other than a Vestal Virgin. This was her home.

She wore the white stola and red headdress of all Vestals. His guess was that she was a few years younger than himself, only a decade or so into her thirty years of service to the goddess. Her thick hair had an auburn sheen, and her face was as beautiful as any Charelius had ever seen.

“Another one,” she said – out loud – as he walked up to her. “Another chosen by the gods.”

“I could say the same to you, my lady.” Charelius bowed his head slightly. Even the Emperor showed deference to the Vestals. “May I have the honor of your name?”

“I am the Vestal Junia.” But even as she formally introduced herself, the mental bond between them strengthened – and he could feel her sheer delight at finding him, the depth of her longing for a companion. All he could think was that he was so glad to have found her, so glad to be here …

“Don’t get carried away.” Her eyes twinkled with humor, but he could sense the real warning there. “I imagine it’s dangerous, when two people Marked by Venus meet.”

“Venus, my lady? But I am Marked by Minerva.”

Junia tilted her head. “The Virgo Maxima read my Mark as that of Venus. I know what’s in people’s hearts, and feel their emotions with them – what is that but the power of love?”

“I would never dispute the judgment of the Virgo Maxima,” Charelius hastened to say. Sometimes there was an element of artistry to the interpretation of Marks; not every gift from the gods was as easy to recognize as Erich’s Mark from Vulcan. And, then, why should two of the gods not bestow the same Mark? Their powers and provinces weren’t totally separate, so probably their gifts wouldn’t be either.

Junia’s smile had become slightly sad. “An inconvenient Mark to have, in my case.”

Of course – the more deeply you knew a person, the more you felt as though you loved them; Charelius had learned that over this past month with Erich. How cruelly ironic that a Vestal would be Marked with a gift capable of awakening love. “The gods alone know why they choose us.”

“True. They gave you a Mark worthy of every honor, and yet fated you to be a slave.” Junia looked even more confused by this fact than Charelius had ever allowed himself to be. “Does your Mark help you in your work, Charelius?”

He smiled, realizing she’d learned his name from his own mind. “The _amissiona_ keeps me from learning the exact limits of my Mark. But … it can help, to know what my masters wish, how they feel.”

“I had no idea I could hear the thoughts of another so clearly, as though you were speaking to me.” Junia’s voice was dreamy with wonder, as his own must be. “And you heard mine, too? Despite the _amissiona_?”

He nodded. Always, before, his gift had allowed him to sense how others felt – sometimes very vividly – but he had never before been able to hold a conversation within his own head.

Junia beamed. “We should practice together, surely. But can I monopolize you now? I know your time is not your own.”

It was by far the most tactful acknowledgement of his slavery that Charelius had heard. “I must go today, but soon, my lady, I will come to you. As swiftly as I can.”

Yet his heart ached at the thought, because time given to the Vestal Junia – no matter how much he wanted to explore this unexpected side of his gift – it was time he could not spend with Erich.

She understood immediately. “I will send word to Lucius Emelianus that I have need of your assistance, as a secretary, and both he and you will be compensated. The Vestals can afford a secretary, surely.”

That would still require his time – but the hours of the day when no clerical work was done would remain free. “Thank you, my lady.” Charelius bowed to her, a formal departure.

Then their eyes met, and he realized anew that he and Junia had not merely encountered one another. They had touched minds. She knew his pain … and despite her exalted position, her beauty, her Marks of the gods, Charelius knew hers. Junia was even lonelier than he was.

He would have taken her hand for a moment, only for comfort, except that it was dangerous to be seen touching a Vestal. Not just for him, either: Any Vestal Virgin believed to have violated her vows of chastity with a man would be executed. (The ancient death – burial alive – had been revived in recent decades.)

Yet as he went down the steps, hurrying away, Junia dared to wave goodbye.

 

**

 

The thrill of meeting Junia helped Charelius bear most of the next two days, but then the festival of Fortuna came, and with it, the games.

With them came Erich’s next fight.

“Please tell me you’re on the trainer’s good side,” Charelius pleaded as he stood at the gates of the _ludus_ the day before the battle. “And they’ve suited you up with good armor?”

“Strong and sturdy,” Erich promised. He seemed so calm, so unworried, and yet he looked at Charelius as though he were trying to memorize his features – as though they would not meet again.

“Armor has to be more than sturdy. It has to look good. They cheer louder for the handsome ones, which is ghastly, but it’s true – if it comes down to mercy or death, that can make all the difference.”

“I’m not the one who’ll need mercy.” Erich’s smile was fierce. 

Charelius only nodded. He wanted to touch Erich before he left – his hand, his shoulder, something – but it would have been too much. He would have sensed Erich’s fear for his life; he could not bear that fear and his own too.

“Will you be at the Colosseum?” Erich asked.

“I can’t. Emeliana won’t go again, and I can hardly attend without her.” Instead he would be running her errands; to judge by his mistress’ latest whims, while Erich was fighting for his life, Charelius would be at the wigmaker’s. “But I’ll be thinking of you. Every second.”

Erich tilted his head slightly. How did he manage to look at Charelius like that? So jaded and weary, and yet at once hungry for something he would or could not name. “Will you?”

“I promise. And I’ll come to see you as soon as I can afterward.”

They both needed to believe there would be an after.

 As he walked home that day, Charelius went to one of the priestesses he saw on the street selling charms; he didn’t think much of Roman protective magic, but their gods seemed so powerful that perhaps it was worth a try. He bought a couple of the bronze charms, swearing them to Erich’s life and health. Later he would count his coins at home and figure out if he could afford something to sacrifice. Anything really worthy would be beyond his means, but he could perhaps get a dove. Surely the gods would understand it was all he had.

 

**

 

“What do you think?” Emeliana said, turning her head that way and this as she peered into the fuzzy reflection offered by the polished-metal mirror. In the distance, the Colosseum crowds roared.

Charelius could hardly see the scene in front of him: the wigs on their stands, the wigmaker tucking curls around Emeliana’s pretty face, the crowds walking by outside the open door. To hear the cheering and not know why, not to know if the spectators were shouting for Erich’s victory or his death …

“Charelius?” Emeliana arched an eyebrow, then gentled. Her Mark might not have been as strong as his, but she drank no _amissiona_ , and so she had read more than he’d wished to show. “You’re upset about the Games. About the Marked gladiators. I am too, you know.”

“Yes, domina.” She sat there with a new wig on her head, one dyed as pink as a gladiola; how worried could she be?

“I keep arguing for the better treatment of the Marked all the time, you know. And there’s hope for change, finally. That Marked general in the east becomes more influential with every victory, and everyone says he means to promote the Marked. I bet that means the slaves too.”

Did it? Charelius had heard murmurings about this general, but nothing that would allow him to assess whether Emeliana was right about him. Still, it was reasonable to take hope from that, wasn’t it? Realistic. “We shall see, domina.”

“We shall indeed. Now, there’s nothing else we can do at the moment, so tell me, is the color too overpowering? So eye-catching, but I always feel I look better in paler shades. Oh! I know. Let me try it while I’m wearing my Mark of Juno! Now what do you think, Charelius? Too bright still, or …”

 

**

 

That evening, as they finished their shopping and returned home, a linen-wrapped wig under one of Charelius’ arms, he saw the graffito in paint still gleaming wet: _Magnus the Victor can have any girl he wants._

Charles lit up. _Erich won. He won!_

If he’d had a hand free to clutch at one of his protective charms in thanksgiving, he would have. The dove had been worth it.

Emeliana and her father would both be attending a dinner that evening, which meant he might do as he would until they returned. Usually, when Lucius Emelianus had feasted – and drunk wine – he came home eager for companionship in his bed. Charelius would have to be sure to return before too late. But he had time to run to the _ludus_ and back.

As Charelius ran, the overcast sky began to patter down rain, just a few stray drops, but threatening a greater storm. Yet he made it to the _ludus_ before the worst of it. Erich came out – hardly a scratch on him! Just a bruise along the thigh – and they could talk. Many of the gladiators were deep in their cups, the sound of their carousing carrying for blocks, so the two of them ducked across the street instead, beneath the arched doorway of a bakery closed for the night.

“Was it terrible?” Charelius said.

“Not as bad as the first. I knew what I was doing more. But –” Erich hesitated.  The rain became harder, and they drew further within the arched doorway, so that they were curved closer to one another. “That’s only the fighting itself. I can handle weapons now. I know tactics. Swords and armor speak to me; the more I learn, the easier each battle will be. Yet it was also easier to kill.” He glanced down at his dusty feet. “So it was better, and yet far worse.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m more like a Roman every day, and it’s what I least want to be.” Erich shook his head, casting aside the darker thoughts. “How long can you stay?”

“Not very.” The laughter from the _ludus_ was male and female both, and Charelius knew very well that that poor Pluto-Marked girl didn’t do much laughing. “Sounds like you have pleasant company waiting, anyway.”

“They’re not there for me.”

Were they prostitutes? Girlfriends? Roman society matrons come for a racy fling with a dangerous man?  All Charelius knew was that he envied whichever of them got to touch Erich.

 _Stupid, stupid, to let yourself fall in love with a gladiator_. And ridiculous, too, for him to want a man, one older and larger than him; Charelius was young still, but he ought to have outgrown that by now.

Yet he found himself thinking of the Vestal Junia, untouched and untouchable, and the desperate loneliness he had sensed within her.

Better a broken heart than one that had never loved.

“Why don’t you enjoy their company?” Charelius asked quietly. “The women, or the boys who come to the _ludus_?”

Erich looked into Charelius’ eyes, then quickly looked away. By now the scent of rain had softened the air; the bricks on the road shone. “I’d feel a fool.”

“Why?”

“There’s never been – I haven’t –” Erich stumbled over his own words, the awkwardness of a man who did not want to admit any vulnerability, yet could not help it. “No women in the mines. And the men – we were so weary, so weak – ”

Why had Charelius not understood this before? He ought to have. It had simply seemed so impossible to him that a man as beautiful as Erich could have remained untouched.

Quietly he said, “Not ever?”

Erich shook his head.  

“A kiss, perhaps? Not even that?” Charelius felt something in his heart bending, giving way. He might have fought his own hopes forever, but not Erich’s loneliness. Summoning his courage, he said, “Would you like to know how to kiss?”

A sharp, indrawn breath – and then, so quietly it was hardly a whisper, “Yes.”

Charelius lifted his face to Erich’s, and took his hand, even rougher and more calloused than Charelius’ own. “Come here, then.”

Erich ducked his head lower, until their mouths were nearly touching. Charelius went on tiptoe to press his lips to Erich’s – softly, then more firmly. As they parted, Erich moved nearer, and then Charelius could kiss him, really kiss him, open mouth and tongue, his arms going around Erich’s waist, Erich’s hands braced on either side of them. At first Erich’s mouth was stiff, unsure … but slowly, slowly, he relaxed into the touch and began to kiss Charelius back. He responded so beautifully, so instinctively –

 _You’ve been too long alone, my friend_ , Charelius thought. 

When they came apart again, they both laughed – self-consciously, but happily too. “Was that right?” Erich murmured. “It felt right.”

“Absolutely right.” He brushed his thumb along Erich’s cheek; Erich covered Charelius’ hand with his own, as if he needed the touch, needed to nuzzle into Charelius’ palm.

Charelius wanted nothing more than to kiss Erich again – to show him so much more of what he’d missed, to make sure that from now on he would lack for nothing.

But the hour grew late. Soon Lucius Emelianus would be home, and wanting Charelius in his bed.

“Can you be at the baths tomorrow?” It sounded as though he were pleading, but Charelius didn’t care any longer, and knew Erich didn’t either. “I think I can, unless they come up with more errands for me.”

Erich grinned. “I won today. That means I can do as I like tomorrow.”

“Then the baths. If I can.”

“Yes.”

He caressed the side of Erich’s face but did not kiss him. He couldn’t kiss him again and walk away so soon. It felt as if, after one more kiss, he might not be able to walk away ever.

All the way home, Charelius ran through the rain, laughing, refusing for one hour, one moment, to acknowledge anything but his joy.

His hair was still wet that night as Lucius Emelianus took him.

 

2.

 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, kid.” Lucan said as they walked toward the Circus Maximus.

“They’re lovers,” Marina insisted. Despite the summer heat, she wore the black stola and gloves that, by now, were recognized by the entire crowd. Covering her body was necessary when they were in public, lest a stray brush against someone’s elbow cause irreparable harm or death. Sweat beaded on her pale forehead. “Didn’t you see how Erich looked last night when he came back after Charelius’ visit? Like he’d swallowed the sun.”

“They’re both grown men. Everybody knows men only like women or boys.”

“’Everybody knows’ a lot of things that aren’t true,” Marina retorted. “Besides, Charelius looks younger than he is. I met them coming back from the baths once. I could have thought he wasn’t much older than me, and boys my age still catch men’s eyes.”

“Huh.” It was as close to an answer as Lucan intended to give. He didn’t like remembering that Marina was old enough to take as a wife, had any man been able to touch her. Remembering that led to thinking about dangerous things.

She’d attached herself to him, and appointed herself his caretaker after the bloody spectacles in the arena. Yesterday he had been burned alive almost to the bone; his scars were only faint red marks by now, but Lucan still felt raw and weary. Marina had given him water and stayed awake long into the night, until he had skin again and could bear it better. What she hadn’t given him was pity; she just talked to him sensibly, keeping his mind off the pain as best she could.

They had shared the same room ever since her first appearance in the Colosseum, despite his misgivings. Most evenings, he slept on the floor while she took the bed; after his torments in the arena, they’d reverse the arrangement for a night. He found he liked her company. She was feisty, with a good sense of humor that came through on the days when the burden of her Mark didn’t overwhelm her. A few of the gladiators joked about her being his concubine, but most of them had more sense. Lucan preferred to think of himself as … an adopted brother, perhaps.

How else could he think of a woman he could never touch?

But she didn’t seem to be confused about the situation. Kept her head on straight. So far, he had too. That made it all right to plan one outing she might enjoy.

“It’s going to be scorching,” Marina said, drawing up her black _palla_ to more completely cover her hair and perhaps provide some shade. “We could still go back.”

“If you get too hot, just tell me. But you gotta see the chariot races. _These_ are Rome’s greatest games. The only ones worth a damn.”

By now the entire crowd was made up of spectators on their way to the Circus. Today the Whites were racing the Greens, so ribbons and badges in those colors bedecked peoples clothes – far more for the popular Greens.

But the Whites had a new charioteer that couldn’t be beat. Lucan had laid down some good money on today’s races, and he liked to watch any race he bet on.

As they walked into the vast marble oval of the Circus Maximus itself, he took pleasure in watching Marina’s lips part in wonder. “This is – it’s – it’s even bigger than the Colosseum!”

“Seats twice as many, for about twice as many days per year,” Lucan confirmed. “These bastards like their bloody gladiatorial games, but they _love_ their races.”

The Circus Maximus was one of the places where Romans of all classes mingled elbow to elbow. People still told the story of the worker lunching in his seat upbraided by the Emperor Augustus, who’d said, “When I want to eat, I go home.” The worker had replied, “You don’t have to worry about losing your seat, do you?” – a rejoinder so good Augustus himself had retold it many times. Highborn nobles with gold armbands and fine robes might sit next to the lowliest laborers from the streets. The seats of the rich differed only because the rich could afford nice cushions to bring along.

So it was not their lowly status as slaves to the _ludus_ that made people look at Marina and Lucan in contempt. It was Marina’s dark robes, and what they signified.

“Not that one!” a man scoffed as they took their places on their row … good seats, right near the final turn. “Get that thing far away from me.”

Marina flinched. The word _thing_ had cut her like the knout of a whip.

“We paid for our seats the same as you,” Lucan said, sitting down directly behind the guy. “She’s wearing gloves. Stop being such a baby about it.”

The man flushed. “I’m telling you right now, if she touches me, you’ll be sorry.”

Lucan lazily raised one hand and – SNIKT! – extended his claws. Everyone around them gasped; a few screamed.

In the following hush, Lucan said, “If I touch you, you’ll be even sorrier.”  

People turned away. The angry guy moved to a different section. Marina finally sat next to Lucan, her cheeks pink.  “You shouldn’t threaten people for me.”

“You never let me have any fun.” Besides, what were they going to do to him? He doubted they had anything worse to throw at him than what he already had to endure. But the discussion ended as the trumpets began to sound. Lucan retracted his claws as he sat up straighter. “We’re getting started.”

The Greens chariot rolled out first, to deafening cheers – and no denying it was a pretty piece of work. “Black stallions in every halter,” Marina said admiringly. “They look just like a painting.”

“You don’t choose horses for looks. You choose ‘em for speed. That’s one reason why the Whites charioteer is the better man.”

“What are the other reasons?”

“Look for yourself. Here he comes.” Lucan began clapping his hands together as the Whites chariot rolled into the ring. Even though the Whites had fewer supporters, he added his voice to those shouting the name of the charioteer: “ _Bestius_!”

Everyone was standing now, and Marina clambered onto their bench to take a look for herself. He had to laugh when he saw her astonishment. “But he’s – he’s got – he’s _blue_!”

“Gotta cheer for one of our own, right?”

Bestius was one of those Marked who did not look entirely human. Lucan had seen these among the gladiators before – from those who simply had slightly differently colored skin to those who seemed more animal than human. In the center of this continuum was Bestius, who had fur, claws and face like an animal, the limbs of a man, and a color that belonged only to animals of the sea or air, never land.

Some mocked him for this. But Lucan had realized in one of Bestius’ first races that this driver had the mind of a man – and of a very intelligent man at that.

The horns blared, and the race was on.

Immediately the crowd went wild, shouting for their favorites. Although the cheers were louder for the Greens, Lucan could see which way things were turning. While the Greens charioteer was moving fast, his control was already shaky. Bestius, meanwhile, had the Whites chariot well in hand, keeping pace just behind.

_That’s right, that’s right, keep the horses fresh but stay ready to make your move –_

Lucan’s thoughts were interrupted by Marina’s shouting. “Come on, Whites! Come on, Bestius!”

He’d never seen her so uninhibited – jumping up and down, grinning, having fun. Most of the time Marina looked like she was afraid of her own shadow, scared to death of hurting anyone around her just by existing. Now, though, she looked like any other girl, healthy and vibrant and alive –

 _An adopted brother_ , Lucan reminded himself.

When the Greens faltered, Bestius was ready, pushing the White team forward just on the final laps. The only thing Lucan enjoyed more than thinking about how much he was going to win on his bet was hearing the sound of Marina’s cheering, distinct from all the screams of the crowd.

Bestius finished nearly a lap ahead of the Whites. As the banners were raised, Lucan laughed to see Marina waving her hands above her head. “Looks like we made a racing fan today.”

“It was _amazing_.” Her smile was broader than he’d ever seen it. “Bestius was incredible.”

A Greens fan put his face almost up in Marina’s – though not close enough for it to count as bravery. His face was ugly, with the disappointment of loss and something worse besides, as he snarled, “Bestius is nothing but an animal.” Marina shrank back, her brief joy already stolen.

“Hey,” Lucan said stepping forward. “Leave her alone.”

“Or what? You’ll prove you’re only an animal too?” The man with the green ribbon on his tunic – he looked proud of himself. Not noble, if Lucan was any judge, but rich enough to act like it. He kept his head high as he continued, “Slaves aren’t allowed to have weapons. Those claws of yours ought to be pulled.”

“Try it, pal.” Lucan grinned in a way that wasn’t meant to look friendly. “They grow back fast.”

“Lucan, no.” Marina reached out toward him, but didn’t touch, not trusting herself even with her gloves on.

But then another man stepped forward. “What’s the meaning of this?”

 _Now this one’s nobility,_ Lucan thought. This guy’s tunic wasn’t so much paler or finer than any of the others; the odd medallion he wore over his chest, made of some kind of red-tinted glass, was no fashion Lucan had ever seen. He was young, perhaps in his mid-20s, with fair hair and chiseled features. But his attitude was what made his status clear. The belligerent guy was trying to act powerful; this one had so much power he felt no need to advertise it.  

The Greens fan said, with a sneer, “Slaves and animals are causing trouble.”

“Slaves they may be, but they are Marked by the gods, and the gods are not yours to question,” said the high-born young man.

“Marked by Egyptian gods, maybe.” Apparently the Greens fan wasn’t ready to back down to a pretty boy. “Things with the heads of dogs and or birds – ”

“Marked by the gods,” the high-born man repeated, standing up straighter. “As I am myself Marked by Mars. Do you doubt it? Must I prove it to you?”

That made the Greens guy back off. “Fine, then, didn’t say anything against you. No need to get into it.”

But the well-born young man stood there the entire time the Greens man walked away. He seemed to be expecting some thanks, and Lucan figured he was due. (If he’d raised a hand to a free Roman citizen himself, there would’ve been hell to pay.) The words stuck in his craw, though. Felt like the guy wouldn’t be able to hear them over his own pride.

Marina had better manners, though. “Thank you. Really I think he was just angry his chariot team lost.”

The younger man laughed. “No doubt. Well, when Sebastianus returns from the east, the likes of him will have some reckoning to do.”

The Marked general Lucan had heard so much about – he was coming back to Rome? Lucan was pretty sure he hadn’t gotten any orders to that effect, particularly not while Emperor Domitian was ailing and on bad terms with the Senate. A popular general returning to Rome with his army during a time of unrest … that sounded like trouble.

Their new friend left with his silk-clad companions without giving any more information, not that Lucan had intended to ask. Marina waited until they were walking away from the Circus Maximus before saying, “Who’s Sebastianus?”

He took out one of his _amissiona_ cigars and lit it at an altar candle as they passed by. “I’ve got a feeling we’re gonna find out.”

 

3.

 

Erich did not attend the chariot races.

The day after gladiatorial games were a rare time of rest for nearly everyone at the _ludus_ , mostly because everyone who’d survived was exhausted, from the fighters to the armorers to the medics to the lions who slept in their cages, drowsily digesting criminals. Erich awoke sore to the bone, and with the fresh memory of a man dying at his feet in the sand.

_A man Marked by the gods – a man like me, not like the Romans –_

But then he remembered Charelius yesterday, and their kisses in the archway, to the sound of the rain.

Usually Erich found it difficult to cast aside his dark thoughts. That morning, he threw them aside as easily as his blanket. He gathered his coins and hurried through the streets toward the Baths of Nero, smiling the whole way despite the aches in every muscle and joint.

Nothing like a warm soak to heal what ailed him, especially if he got to be next to Charelius.

He arrived earlier than usual, to judge by the shadows on the ground … but his smile broadened as he saw Charelius already there, waiting for him.

“Hello.”

“Hi.” And then they could only stand there, grinning foolishly at each other, until they both laughed. Around them streamed lines of men ready for their baths, completely unconcerned with the two slaves standing there.

Charelius began again. “How do you feel?”

“Black and blue. And yet never better.”

That won him a blush across Charelius’ fair cheeks. “I had an idea.”

“Yes?”

“Normally it’s a good hour or so in the baths, but we could go through much faster if – if we wanted to spend some time together.” Charelius’ words came quickly, almost breathlessly. “Emeliana and her father are both sleeping off the wine they had last night. Neither of them will move until midmorning. That gives us a couple of hours, if you want them.”

Erich could hardly keep himself from grabbing Charelius’ hand and dragging him off that instant – but he was grimy with sweat and sand and another man’s blood. “Quickly, then.”

They hardly did more than rinse in the frigidarium. When they got to the warm pools, they eased in next to each other, thighs brushing slightly. The contact made Erich suck in a breath, and he shifted closer, only to have Charelius pull back.

“We shouldn’t,” Charelius said very softly. “In the baths – people do, sometimes, but it’s frowned upon. Can get you chucked out, if the attendants are paying attention.”

“We’re not staying long anyway, are we?” All Erich could think of was finally touching Charelius, of getting to kiss him again, holding him close and – and the rest was a bit blurry for him, made up mostly of the grunts and cries he’d heard from the other gladiators’ rooms. But he couldn’t wait to find out.

Charelius’ smile was bright through the steam wreathing around them. “We want them to let us back in someday. Come on. Let me wash your hair.”

Obediently Erich dunked his head backward into the steamy water, then half-floated there while Charelius kneaded his scalp, working out the tangles. (As long as he was shaving his face like a Roman, Erich wondered whether he oughtn’t to cut his hair short too – but not if it meant losing the chance for Charelius to touch him like this.) When Charelius was done, Erich washed his hair in return, scooping water in an earthenware bowl and pouring it over Charelius’ tilted-back head. As the warm water coursed through Charelius’ hair, he closed his eyes in pleasure, and Erich shuddered.

They took themselves off for a quick scraping, though it was so difficult to rush through the job now that he only wanted to spend more time studying Charelius’ body, touching it –

“Erich,” Charelius whispered. “You’ve got to calm yourself.”

“There are always a dozen hard-ons in the bath at any given moment. Doesn’t always mean anything.”

“Yours is … more obvious than most. I think maybe you were also Marked by Priapus.”

Erich managed to keep from laughing too loud. “You’re one to talk.”

“Hurry or we’ll have to go back into the frigidarium just to keep from being indecent.”

So they hurried. Within another few minutes they were dashing through the streets back to the ludus. If anyone else was awake, they were at the chariot races, which meant no one disturbed them as they came through the gates and went to Erich’s room.

“You have this to yourself?” Charelius said as Erich drew back the tattered cloth drape that served him for a door.

Erich paused. “It belonged to the man I killed yesterday. Now it’s mine.”

Charelius turned to him then, stricken. “I’m sorry. I should have realized – ”

“I can’t think about it. Not now. Please not now.”

“For now we don’t have to think about anyone else in the world,” Charelius murmured, drawing Erich in and pulling him close. “We don’t have to think about anything but this.”

They kissed again once, twice, a dozen times. If they had done nothing but kiss, Erich thought in dazed delight, that would have been paradise enough. But Charelius took off his tunic, exposing his beautiful body to Erich anew – and now not just for him to look upon, but for him to touch, stroke, taste. When Charelius pulled at Erich’s own tunic, he threw it aside and let Charelius ease him onto the bed.

“What do I do?” Erich asked. His large hands had never seemed so clumsy compared to the perfection of Charelius’ pale body, the constellation of tiny freckles upon his back and arms.

“Whatever you want. Only …” Charelius tensed within Erich’s embrace, and something dark clouded his expression. “Last night. Lucius Emelianus – he can be rough, and I – I’m still sore.” His cheeks flushed, now in embarrassment instead of arousal. “If you want to be inside me, we can, but you must be gentle.”

Erich was horrified at the thought of doing anything that might hurt Charelius. “No. I won’t treat you like he has. I wouldn’t want that, not ever.”

It was as though Charelius didn’t understand. In a rush of anger, Erich realized that Charelius had never even asked himself what it would be like to have a lover who cared more for his pleasure and comfort than their own.

Roughly he said, “You are not a slave here. Not with me. Between each other we are free men.”

Slowly Charelius smiled, a small, tender smile of disbelief. “One free moment. Yes.”

“Tell me what you want, and it is yours.”

Charelius told him not with words, but with touch. He guided Erich’s mouth to his nipples, dark on his pale chest, and gasped when Erich sucked at them. His hands massaged the muscles of Erich’s weary arms, thighs and back, so Erich did the same. When Charelius grasped Erich’s erection in his hand, he wanted to respond in kind, but for a long moment he could only bite his lower lip and try not to shout.

He kissed Charelius long and deep, then whispered, “How is it so much better when you touch me than when I touch myself?”

Charelius laughed softly. “Touch me and I’ll see if I can figure it out.”

It was intimidating. Charelius had foreskin; did that make everything different? Erich decided he had to try and see. And then he was so glad he did, because just the feel of Charelius hard and warm in his palm – the sensation of his pulse against Erich’s skin, and the way Charelius groaned – all of it was as good as being touched, if not better.

No. Not better. Nothing could be better than the way Charelius had begun to work him.

They grappled with each other, muffling groans against each other’s throats and shoulders, until finally Charelius uttered a word Erich didn’t know – an oath in his Celtic language, no doubt. “The bath oil –”

Charelius had insisted on buying some today at the baths, though they’d had no time to use it. Erich reached down to fish his cloth purse from the floor and gave it to Charelius, who fumbled with the ties almost comically. When he had the glass flask in his hand, he quickly poured a bit into his palm as Erich lowered himself over him, thigh to thigh.

He then wrapped his oiled hands around both of their cocks together, and Erich could bear it no more. His shout probably carried across the courtyard. Fine. Let them all know. He was past the point of giving a damn.

They began to move together, finding the rhythm to thrust against each other. Erich lowered his head, the better to brush his mouth against Charelius’ – they were moving too fast now to really kiss, but their gasping lips touched, broke apart, sought each other again. He felt Charelius’ hand against his ass, fingers digging into muscle, gripping him tight to intensify each thrust.

All of it was so good, and yet none of it was better than Charelius’ fingers, Charelius’ cock, hot and slick and hard and pumping him again and again –

Erich came, spurting thick into Charelius’ palm. The pleasure of it rocked him, blinded him and made him groan.

Yet it wasn’t complete until Charelius came too, biting down on his lower lip and flushing so dark that Erich could hardly believe it. He laughed out loud for sheer joy, and Charelius smiled crookedly at him as his head lolled to the side. “Oh, yes.”

“That was good?” Erich whispered.

“Exquisite. You’re everything I could want. I hope for you it was –”

“The most wonderful hour of my life.”

It was no exaggeration. Only the literal truth.

Charelius must have sensed that, because he drew Erich down into his arms then, and for a while they kissed each other, stroked their limbs, and lazed in pleasant afterglow. Erich wondered whether Charelius would want to go again soon. His body was nowhere near being able, but … oh, please let him be able to manage it before Charelius had to leave!

 “I never thought I’d become besotted with a man. A woman, certainly; a boy, maybe, but – well, here you are.” Charelius smiled against Erich’s chest. “Maybe I’m more boy than man to you.”

“You are a man,” Erich insisted. He laid his hand over Charelius’ spent cock for affirmation, which won a chuckle. “I never felt like this about anyone else. Never had the chance.”

“… you have chances now. Did you just want to learn a bit about how it could go? If so, that’s – it’s all right, really – ”

“No. I mean, yes, I wanted to learn, but I also wanted you for yourself alone.”

“How gentle you are,” Charelius said, as he lay in a dead man’s bed with his murderer. Erich wondered at how it could be true – how in the arena he could be a killer, but here he could learn gentleness, devotion, tenderness.

_This is who I want to be. Not the chained killer for the Romans. I want to be the man I am with him._

“How much longer can you stay?” Erich asked.

“A couple hours short of noonday, perhaps? To be on the safe side.” Charelius’ smile dimmed. “It’s not as though I didn’t hate being a slave before today. But now it feels … even more wrong than it did before.”

“Because you must leave me?”

“Because I cannot belong to you, or you to me. We don’t even have our own selves to give.”

Erich traced his hand along Charelius’ face, outlining every feature with his fingertips. Very quietly he said, “You know I cannot live long. Few slave gladiators do.”

Charelius shook his head. “Don’t say that.”

“We both know it’s true.” He had no difficulty facing this. Erich had been forced to consider the prospect of his imminent death virtually every day since being consigned to the mines … fifteen years before? He had no idea of the exact timespan, unable even to count his life by that most basic measure. And though he dreamed of living one day, one moment as a free man, he also understood the odds. “When I went into the arena yesterday, I didn’t fight for my life. I fought for time. I fought for the chance to return to you.”

“My Erich – ” Charelius pulled him back down into an embrace, and Erich hugged him close.

Against Charelius’ shoulder he murmured, “They can take so much from us, but not this. Not what I feel for you.”

“Keep fighting. Promise me always to keep fighting.”

“Always.”

They kissed each other senseless. Dozed in their mutual embrace. Woke again to a second coupling as sweet as the first. If sex with women was as delightful as sex with men, Erich finally understood why most of the gladiators gave every coin they made to prostitutes.

He lay next to Charelius, stroking his hair, and thought, _He makes me drunker than wine._

But they did not belong to each other. The shadows grew shorter, and Charelius had to leave. At the cloth that blocked his doorway, Erich kissed him again and again, mouth and forehead and chin and nose, until Charelius laughed. “Stop. You have to stop.”

“You don’t want me to stop.”

“No, I don’t.” Charelius kissed his mouth long and deep then, until Erich felt almost dizzy with it. “We’ll find each other in the baths again soon, yes?”

“Yes. We will.”

“Until then.” One more kiss, and then Charelius left. Erich pulled back the drape to watch him go, jogging out the gates of the ludus just as others were walking in – returning from the chariot races, no doubt.

Among them were Lucan and Marina. She glanced after Charelius, then took in Erich’s smiling face and said, “Told you so.”

“All right, all right, don’t get smug about it.” Lucan collected one of his _amissiona_ cigars from his room, then came back out to light it at one of the braziers. “The Whites won, which means I won, which means if you want a drink, I’m paying. Marina wants to walk over to one of the places on the Pincian hill. You in?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Really Erich wanted nothing so much as to lie back down on his bed, breathe in the scents of Charelius and sex, and daydream about the hours that had just passed. But when he went back into that room, he would only be reminded that Charelius was gone. That he had to go, because they did not belong to themselves.

 _We belong to each other,_ he told himself, needing it to be true.

 

4.

 

“I _said_ , my _pearl_ earrings. Honestly, Charelius! You can’t remember anything today.”

“Forgive me, domina.”

“Oh, it’s forgiven. I suppose no one can think clearly in this heat. Why Father hasn’t taken us away for the summer yet I can’t imagine.” Emeliana flopped back onto her couch, restless and bored.

She longed to leave Rome’s sweltering July; more than that, she wanted to be in one of the fashionable harbor cities, where everyone who was anyone went to see and be seen. There hadn’t been a good party in more than a week, and no tempting invitations beckoned in the future. Emeliana thought fretfully that maybe her father wanted her to die an old maid, so she could stay with him and nurse him the rest of his life. After all, she was 17 – still prime marriageable age, but in another year or two, were she still not wed or at least betrothed, people would begin to talk.

 _Nothing in my life is agreeable in the slightest,_ Emeliana thought sulkily as she waved away the grapes Charelius offered her. _We aren’t doing anything interesting this summer, and Father won’t let me have my own litter, and nobody’s doing anything for the Marked gladiators, and for the past week Charelius has been so absent-minded as to be useless._

 _(_ She enjoyed Charelius’ company – more than that of any of her aristocratic friends, truth be told – so his inattention hurt her feelings a bit, though she was too proud to admit it.)

“Do you require my further assistance this morning, domina?” Charelius looked so very hopeful. “If not, I thought I would go to the baths.”

“There’s nothing to do here. There’s nothing to do anywhere. You might as well bathe.” Emeliana waved him off.

He didn’t linger; she couldn’t blame him. In heat like this, the frigidarium was the only place any right-minded person would want to be. Maybe she ought to go herself. Even though they had their own pool at home, she occasionally took herself off to the baths to meet up with friends and gossip, or get a bit of exercise.

But no one worth talking to do would be at the baths either. It was beyond endurance.

Finally Emeliana went looking for her father; he had been meeting with clients all morning, as usual, but even they were less numerous in the heat. By the time she walked into the peristyle, only a few of them remained, and they all drew back respectfully as she walked forward. “Father, may I have a word?”

“Come, come, my little jewel.” He could be so doting. Father took her hand. “What is it that has you looking so cross?”

“I’m bored to tears with Rome. When are we leaving?”

Father surprised her. “Very soon, my dear. But not until after our dinner tomorrow night.”

“Since when do we have a dinner tomorrow night?”

“Since this,” Father said, taking up a wax tablet by his side. “A very interesting invitation I think we should accept.”

As though there were any interesting invitations to be had. Still, he was finally talking about going away for the summer, so this had to count as good news. “Where will we go?”

“Depends on the dinner. Wear your best, and that might help us determine.” He winked at her then.

How maddening not to know! But Emeliana finally had something to be excited about. And her things needed to be packed – oh, how foolish of her to have let Charelius go to the baths. Never mind, she’d make him get started in the afternoon.

 

**

 

Their mysterious dinner took them to the Palatine Hill, and houses so grand that Emeliana began to wonder whether they might be secret guests of the emperor himself. (Though, of course, that was foolish, as he’d been so ill and reclusive lately.) Yet when they finally came to the house, and their host and hostess came out to greet them, Emeliana didn’t feel let down in the slightest.

“Senator Sempronius,” she said gracefully, only just managing to conceal her excitement. Gaius Sempronius Scota was a powerful man, once a commander of worships, from an old and revered family … and everyone knew he had two fine sons.

Marked sons.

“Here she is at last. I remember meeting her at that banquet last year.” The senator spoke only to her father, which was only to be expected. “Your daughter has only grown lovelier.”

“Come inside, my dear,” said the senator’s wife, guiding Emeliana through the door and gesturing to a young man stepping out of the shadows – one who wore a large medallion of red glass around his neck. “Meet our son, Gaius Sempronius Alexander.”

It was beyond outlandish for a Roman son to be given a Greek cognomen. But this was no slave name to be hung on any errand boy; the name “Alexander” was revered throughout the world, a name that promised brilliance, courage and glory. Looking at this Alexander, Emeliana could believe his parents had chosen well. He was as handsome as any man she had ever seen – about ten years her senior, which was the best any bride could hope for – and he smiled at her with evident pleasure at her beauty.

So this was why her father had been so sly! He was _matchmaking._

That night’s dinner was a far more reserved affair than some of the big bashes Emeliana had attended in the past, but then, these were far more exalted people than she and her father normally associated with. She conducted herself like the proper Roman girl she was supposed to be, and really had always meant to be. Modest, quiet, pious: That wasn’t so very different from her true self, was it?

Though she thought it was silly to be quiet when she had something to say, or wanted to ask a question that would help her understand. Dull to pretend that she preferred dignified silence between courses to something merrier, like a musician or a poet providing entertainment. And her father had told her not to bring up her efforts on behalf of Marked gladiators tonight, though surely that would be of interest to Alexander and his family. _Rest quietly and let yourself be admired_ , he’d said.

Well. Emeliana didn’t mind being admired.

“Marked by Mars, you say?” Father asked as they dined on duck slathered with _garum_.

“As is my brother, sir.” Alexander touched the medallion he wore. “We have both found that red glass helps us to focus the energies we are given. Otherwise the results can be dangerous. But I have learned to control it, and I feel certain my younger brother Scota will as well.”

“But it is more difficult for Scota, you see, as his Mark manifests itself through his eyes.” That was a mother for you, always sticking up for the baby of the family. “Now that they have fashioned a proper helmet for him, I feel sure he will be able to rejoin us in Rome soon.”

Emeliana had no real curiosity about the whereabouts of Caius Sempronius Scota, or about whatever strange Mark came through one’s eyes. Alexander was the one her father had picked out for her, and it was him and his parents she needed to charm.

Her father knew what to do. “Emeliana, dear, show them your Mark.” She knew he was not speaking of her Mark of Minerva. Mind-reading always made people ill-at-ease, after all; it was so much easier to show off her Mark of Juno, and more dazzling, too.

So she shifted into her diamond form and delighted in the awed faces of those around her. If it made the food in her mouth go tasteless – if she could no longer really enjoy the softness of the couch, or show off the lovely peach-colored silks she’d worn – what did that matter? What mattered was looking beautiful and impressing those around her. Being admired.

(So why did that feel hollow, sometimes? She meant to ask Charelius about it. He understood such things, even though he was just a slave.)

“Breathtaking, my dear,” said Gaius Sempronius. “You ought to wear that Mark all the time.”

“As I wear the proof of mine,” Alexander cut in. “I was encouraged to do so by General Sebastianus himself, while I was serving with him in Germania.”

“They say Sebastianus is Marked by Hercules.” Her father looked dubious. “But could Hercules bestow a Mark, like the greater gods?”

Alexander’s mouth tightened. “You would not doubt it had you met Sebastianus, and seen what he can do.”

Time to speak for herself, proper young girl or no. “Of course Hercules could bestow his Mark,” Emeliana said, attempting to strike the right balance between polite and firm. “Did he not ascend to the same honors as the gods? Is he not one of the divinities who helped to found Rome itself? He would be sure to give his Mark to a great Roman.”

“Well said.” Alexander smiled at her. “And Sebastianus is to be one of the greatest Romans of all.”

Now they would start talking politics again. Yes, that was a bore, but Emeliana thought she could while the time away very nicely while looking at Alexander’s fine profile. Very nicely indeed.

 

5.

 

Packing for the seaside house at Baiae was an enormous chore, one Charelius would have resented even if he weren’t facing the prospect of two months without seeing Erich again.

(“They say there are fewer games in summertime,” Erich had said during their last stolen hour together, an afternoon when they’d made love in Erich’s room despite the gladiatorial exercises taking place only two dozen feet away, when they had stifled their cries despite the fact that everyone knew precisely what was going on, and ribald jokes had been shouted for all to hear.

“It’s true. Rome empties out of anyone who can afford to leave, which means anyone who can afford to put on games.” Though this year, the emperor was staying behind later than usual – but due to illness, and fear of the growing popularity of Sebastianus. He was keeping the treasuries fat to bribe the praetorians, if it came to that, not spending it on panthers or giraffes or other theatrical elements for a grand set of games.

Erich had smiled. “So I’ll be safe, you see? And thinking of you.”

“And I, you.” Charelius had drawn Erich down for a kiss so long and deep it would have become lovemaking again, if he hadn’t had to hurry on to his lessons.)

He wouldn’t even have a spare hour to tell Erich goodbye. Instead all Emeliana’s stolas and jewelry had to be properly packed, not to mention a few of her favorite wigs. Much of the furniture would travel as well, and Charelius had to arrange for the wagons to haul folded tables and chairs, selecting which groups of house slaves would accompany each wagon.

Charelius would of course travel with Emeliana and her father. He wondered tiredly whether Lucius Emelianus would leave him alone on the trip, at least, or whether he would be expected to sleep in his master’s rooms at the inn. Of course the long summer would be night after night of unwanted attentions – of the harsh difference between his memories of Erich and the reality of what he had to endure with Lucius Emelianus. But he could bear it. Every night he bore with his master would bring Charelius one day closer to being with Erich again.

“Baiae’s been out of fashion for so long, but this year is different,” Emeliana gushed as she inspected Charelius’ work. “Domitian prefers Tibur, so that’s where everyone went, but now nobody wants to have anything to do with him. It’s all about Sebastianus these days, and his friends are all going to Baiae.”

He couldn’t help smiling. “I think you wouldn’t care for fashion, domina, so long as you were spending the summer in the same city as Alexander.”

“You’re _terrible_ ,” Emeliana answered, obviously delighted that he’d said it.

Charelius was very nearly as glad to hear of Emeliana’s possible betrothal as she was. He liked her, so it was a relief to think that she would be married to a young man she preferred instead of some elderly boor chosen only for his wealth. But really, he had begun to hang many of his hopes on the days when Emeliana was a married woman. It seemed possible that she would take him with her as part of her dowry; in that case, Charelius would be away from Lucius Emelianus forever.

That was reward enough. But the prospect of Emeliana marrying Alexander held even more potential. Alexander was himself Marked by the gods, and he was greatly favored by Sebastianus, who was rapidly emerging as the likely successor to the Emperor Domitian. If Charelius were the slave of someone so influential, he might be able to expect a far better sort of life – one where he worked solely on clerical tasks, and dealt with top politicians, jurists and historians on a daily basis. He would make excellent money and might even be able to buy his freedom while he was still young enough to enjoy it. Surely that was worth the trouble of going to Baiae.

Worth giving up two months with Erich for, out of the precious little time they would ever have? No. But Charelius knew he had to take what he could get.

Later, though, as father and daughter entertained a few friends at a modest dinner, and Charelius stood in the corner, awaiting any needs that might arise, one of the noblemen said, “Here, leave behind that slave of yours, won’t you?” He gestured at Charelius. “I’ll pay you well if you do.”

“Whatever for?” Lucius Emelianus said.

“My father kept a fine library, you know, but the spring damp got into it and wouldn’t you know, it’s ruined the Aeneid. Of all things! I’d like a copy made, and that boy does good neat work. Besides, what use will you have of him at the seashore?”

Copying out the Aeneid would take the entire summer. An entire summer without Lucius Emelianus, an entire summer to spend with Erich, every night his own …

Charelius could hardly breathe when Emeliana protested, “But you can’t leave Charelius behind! It’s so nasty here in summertime. That’s just mean.”

“You want your pretty things about you, I know,” Lucius Emelianus said absently, glancing at the corner where Charelius stood. The mental calculation was obvious: Was the money to be made from hiring Charelius out worth the inconvenience of losing his favorite plaything?

 _There are brothels in Baiae_ , Charelius projected at Lucius Emelianus with all his might. He knew the _amissiona_ would probably keep him from influencing the decision, and yet he couldn’t help trying. _Other beautiful boys, and girls too, whatever you want. Better to have the money. So much better._

“Very well,” Lucius Emelianus said. “We’ll have him look after the house in our absence, take the cook along instead. You and I, we’ll work out his fee later, and you’ll have to see to his being dosed with _amissiona_ , of course.”

“Father!” Emeliana pouted. “You’re mean.”

“Now, now, child. Perhaps just as well not to have a male slave about so much this summer, hmm?” Even Emeliana could see the sense in that, because she quieted down. Her father prattled on to his friend, Charelius’ new employer. “You’ll have to pay for the _amissiona_ on top of his usual fee, because the stuff’s not cheap – ”

Charelius hardly heard the rest. It was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud for joy.

 

**

 

Four days later, Emeliana bid him a tearful farewell. “It’s so unfair. I know it is. You ought at least have been able to enjoy some time by the ocean.”

“I’m happy to work here, domina,” Charelius said, taking care not to smile too broadly. “Besides, your father’s right. Alexander probably wouldn’t know what to make of me at first.”

“But I won’t have you to talk with. You see so deeply into people – you’d know if he was the right husband for me, I’m sure of it.” She sniffled a little. “Now I won’t have your advice.”

Her genuine regard shone through, once again revealing a glimpse of the fine woman Emeliana would be when she became a little older and wiser. Charelius inclined his head. “Time to exercise your Mark of Minerva more, domina. Make your own judgments. You’re smart enough to size him up yourself.”

“You think so? Then it must be true.” She smiled back, and he realized he would miss her.

But not enough for him to feel anything but pure delight as the family finally got on its way.

 _They’re gone. Gone!_ Charelius stumbled around the empty house for nearly an hour, in a daze of liberty. Every room was stripped down to its barest bones, but the marble still gleamed; the mosaics still shone. He would have to sweep and dust and scrub from time to time, and dip into his own funds to buy food, but other than that, he had the enormous house to himself – and hours upon hours of free time in the evenings, all for Erich.

They’d even left behind a couple of the beds.

“The least they could do,” Erich said that evening, just after sundown, between heated kisses.

“When do you have to return to the _ludus_?” Their time had just expanded enormously, and yet Charelius was only greedy for more, even as he backed Erich toward the bedroom.

“They don’t check for us until a few hours after dark.” Erich’s fingers twined through Charelius’ hair. “Those hours belong to us.”

They’d laid together only four times since that first perfect morning – and each of those times, they’d had to rush, to think of the duty that lay ahead. Tonight, though, they could luxuriate in touching each other. They could kiss for long minutes on end, until Charelius’ lips were swollen and tender, until they were both so hard for each other they ached. They could rub each other down with oil. They could stretch out on a bed that was soft and smelled of lavender, on linen that felt like another caress against their skin.

On the wall opposite the bed was a mural depicting a man and a woman making love, she astride him, Cupid fluttering nearby. Charelius had stared at that same painting while Lucius Emelianus fucked him, memorizing every detail in an effort to make himself forget about what was happening. Now, finally, he understood the appeal of the image – how arousing it was to look at lovemaking during the act.

 _Everything I do with my master is different when I’m with Erich_ , Charelius thought in a daze. _Everything Lucius Emelianus makes ugly, Erich makes beautiful._

“Here,” he whispered, rolling Erich onto his back. “Stretch out.”

As Erich obeyed, Charelius began kissing his way down Erich’s muscled belly, then flicked his tongue along the jutting pelvic bone he found there. Erich drew in a sharp breath. “What – what are you –”

Charelius would have feared any other man’s contempt; this act was for whores and slaves only. But Erich knew what he had to do for Lucius Emelianus and loved him anyway. “I would. For you I would.”

Then he took Erich’s thick cock in his hand, then in his mouth.

Erich was so much bigger than Lucius Emelianus that it took Charelius a moment to find the right angle, the right rhythm. But Erich’s first gasp of pleasure was all the encouragement he needed. Within a few seconds he was sucking Erich hard, taking him deep into his mouth.

The taste of him was better. The feel of him against Charelius’ tongue, the way Erich twisted beneath him – every moment of it was better. But sweetest of all were the sounds Erich was making, each moan and grunt and whimper testament to his pleasure.

This act he had always hated: it was easy to do this as a gift to someone he loved. Charelius would do more than this for Erich –

At that moment, Erich’s breath caught in his throat, ragged and wet, and he jerked out of Charelius’ mouth with a soft pop. Charelius thought he would come – but instead Erich lay there, panting, clearly aching from the need to finish.  The sight of his blood-swollen cock, wet from pre-come and Charelius’ saliva, made Charelius’ own erection twitch in response.

“Why did you stop?” Charelius whispered between kisses on Erich’s thighs.

“I couldn’t – I won’t – won’t do that to you.”

“You can do anything to me. Everything.” By now Charelius’ mind was made up. He would give freely to Erich everything Lucius Emelianus took by force. Didn’t the man he loved deserve to have known his body completely? To have everything Charelius could give? He reached down for the small bottle of oil by the bed and poured another palmful. “I want you to.”

When he began massaging Erich’s cock with the oil, Erich tried to thrust into his hand, but Charelius didn’t let him. Instead he slicked Erich’s fingers and guided them toward his ass.

Erich’s eyes widened. “Charelius – ”

“I want you to,” Charelius repeated. “Just once I want to belong to you completely.”

He lay back onto the bed, the better to let Erich massage him open. Erich was clumsy at first, but he responded to Charelius’ lead, catching on quickly.

(Charelius had learned how to do this for himself. Lucius Emelianus never bothered, so preparing himself was his best means of avoiding pain.)

Erich had such long, thick fingers. He reached deeply enough within Charelius to hit that place – that spot that sometimes made him feel good even as his master took him, the one that had always filled him with shame. Now, though, Charelius understood why it would be this way. It had to be, so that someday he could have this kind of pleasure with the man he loved. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “That’s it. Take me like that.”

For a moment Erich hesitated. He had never been inside another person, Charelius recalled, not man nor woman. So Charelius turned them over, getting Erich flat on his back, and he slung his leg over in the exact posture of the woman in the wall painting. Then he braced his hands on Erich’s broad shoulders and lowered himself slowly, slowly, onto Erich’s cock.

Everything was better. Everything was perfect. The burn of it, Erich filling him completely – Erich’s helpless groan –

He’d had to show Erich everything else about sex, but not how to move. That Erich understood instinctively, brilliantly. Within moments he was pumping into Charelius, their bodies finding the rhythm and depth together, his broad hands catching Charelius at the hips. Charelius let his head hang back as he rode Erich, relishing the chance to be an equal partner in lovemaking. To respond to what he wanted, instead of merely endure. Even though he was playing the passive role – the role that meant humiliation and subjugation – he had never felt more powerful or more free.

 _This is our hour of freedom_ , he thought as Erich thrust into him harder with every stroke. _We have this, always._

Then Erich took hold of Charelius’ cock.

Charelius gasped. No one had ever touched him while he was being penetrated; he’d had no idea how that would feel, to be pleasured in every way simultaneously. He heard his own cries of pleasure almost at a distance, deafened by the ecstasy welling inside him, rising up to drown out everything else until the moment he came.

Even as he shouted out, clenching around Erich, Erich arched and bucked – and then Charelius felt the answering warmth and wetness inside him, Erich’s come filling him up.

Afterward they washed in the private bath – the water was cool, but welcome in the still-sweltering summer night – wrapped themselves in linen and lay in the soft grass of the peristyle, looking up at the stars.

“Thank you,” Erich said, almost shyly. “For doing that for me.”

“It was wonderful. I didn’t know it could be good, not like that.” Charelius played with a long damp strand of Erich’s hair. “Love changes everything, I suppose.”

Erich’s face lit up like a candle. “You are all the joy life has ever offered me.”

“And you are mine.”

They took each other’s hands, and Charelius wished he could sing. He would have sung out into the night, any love song he ever knew – that was how foolishly happy he was, and for once he could afford to cast aside coarse wisdom and be a happy fool.

“This is the first night of our summer,” Charelius murmured, leaving unspoken the words _our only summer_. “This is as close to forever as we will ever come.”

Erich kissed Charelius’ hand. “You are the only eternity I need.”  


	4. The Threshold of Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NAMES
> 
> Erik = Erich (Erichthonius)  
> Charles = Charelius  
> Emma = Emeliana  
> Lucan = Logan  
> Marie/Rogue = Marina  
> Jean = Junia  
> Henry/Beast = Bestius  
> Alexander = Alexander (thank you for having an ancient name, Mr. Summers)  
> Scott = Scota  
> Kitty Pryde/Shadowcat = Catula
> 
> **

1.

 

Marina decided she liked summer. Yes, it was miserably hot, and in the absence of public executions she was made to earn her keep through endless drudgery at the _ludus_ – but she would have gladly done such work in such heat forever if it meant never having to take another human life.

Besides, Rome was less crowded now, and those who walked the streets were poorer and less proud – more like her. Although Marina was given a wide berth by all those who recognized her black garments, she nonetheless felt more at home in the city than she had before. By now she knew her way around, and had even gotten to know a handful of people outside the _ludus_ : the baker who would sometimes sell her a sweet roll on the cheap, or the serene, white-haired priestess of Isis who nodded whenever Marina walked by.

None of them counted as friends, though, save for the group that gathered at the House of the Vestals.

They met at the midday hour. Those who were freeborn bought lunches from nearby markets; those who were slaves, like Marina and Charelius, helped themselves to the bread, cheese and fruit offered by their hostess Junia. Together their small group bridged the full breadth of Roman society – all the way from the exalted Vestal down to, well, Marina herself – though the nobles were thus far few and infrequent. They were both male and female, Roman and foreign, old and young; all they had in common was that they were all Marked. Together they sought to understand why the gods had chosen them.

“Who do you think Marked you?” Marina dared to ask one day.

“Minerva, I think,” Bestius said. “I’m quick with figures, and I can come up with better ways to do things. Our new chariot has some modifications I designed – it’s going to be faster and steadier than any other, but nobody else saw the potential. Only me. So I think Minerva made me clever. Why she also made me blue and gave me the shape of an animal – well, that’s a question for a priestess.”

“Not even we know,” Junia said, gently, but in a way that made everyone laugh.

“Now, you – Mercury’s a good god to be Marked by,” Bestius said to their newest member. His blue fur was bright against the pale stone steps. “I could win every race if I’d been Marked by him instead.”

“Walking through walls only helps with so much,” protested the new girl, an innkeeper’s daughter named Catula. “And I can’t move any faster than anyone else. Mercury chooses his Marks strangely, I guess.”

“Don’t they all?” Bestius sighed, looking at his broad blue feet.

As usual, Charelius took the question and began to play with it like a philosopher. “Some of our Marks are obviously meant to make us stronger, or to allow us to help those around us. But others are harder to comprehend. What purposes do we all see for our Marks?”

Those who could answer did, sparking a lively conversation. Marina had no words.

So far their group had no name, no goals beyond acquaintance and understanding. Nobody was invited or disinvited; the Marked gathered on the steps outside the House of the Vestals, people saw them there, and word got around. While a gathering that included slaves would normally have been suspect, Junia’s presence gave the event unimpeachable respectability.

Charelius and Junia formed the heart of the group, the two most convinced that the Marked should all be friends to one another and try to comprehend the nature and purpose of their gifts. Junia came to the steps of the House of the Vestals every day that it wasn’t raining, and Charelius joined her nearly as often, because his clerical duties took him here. The others attended more sporadically, for various reasons. Marina came whenever she could, because she had few other chances to socialize with any company less swinish than the gladiators, and because she found herself surprisingly interested in what the others had to say.

Erich came on only a handful of occasions. This surprised Marina at first, because she knew that Erich felt their Marks to be of great significance; he thought of himself as Marked even more than he thought of himself as a Jew or a slave or a gladiator.

After a couple of weeks, though, she had the chance to talk with Charelius about it as they walked back toward the _ludus_. (Erich had not attended that day, and Charelius wanted to say hello before going to his afternoon’s duties at the house of the Emelianii.) “You have to understand that Erich despises Rome and all its works,” Charelius explained. “Nothing is more sacred to the Romans than the flame tended by the Vestals. Going to their House, even to meet with others who are Marked – it’s difficult for him.”

“Hate Rome?” Marina had trouble making sense of that. She knew Rome could be cruel, but it was omnipresent, omnipotent, the source of everything whether wicked or good. Hating Rome was like hating the sky.

Charelius ducked to avoid knocking into another slave, who was staggering under the weight of an enormous bundle of wool. They exchanged sympathetic glances with him before going on their way. “Erich and I remember what it was like to live beyond Rome’s reach.”

Marina said, “Erich hates Rome, but you don’t.”

Charelius considered that for a few moments. “I hate it and love it both. I hate the cruelty of the arena, the rigidity, and the very existence of slavery.  But I love the clarity of their laws. Their ingenuity in engineering and architecture. The sense of being at the center of the known world, and the many sorts of people you can meet here. There is good and bad in Rome, as there is in every other place.” He smiled softly. “Erich says I’m an idealist, but really he’s the one who believes a perfect world could be possible. I’m the one who says we have to make our way in the world we have, as best we can.”

“You two talk about everything,” Marina teased. “I’d think you’d have better things to do with your time than talking.”

“Oh, stop. We get around to talking eventually!”

They came to a latrine and ducked inside. After they’d sat down, Charelius chuckled softly. Marina looked at him and said, “What?”

“You know, I’d lived in Rome for years before I was used to this.” He gestured slightly around them, where a dozen men and women from various walks of life sat, chit-chatting with one another or, in the case of one Senator, perusing a scroll. “Britons tend to these matters in private.”

It sounded awfully inconvenient to Marina. “How are you supposed to get away every time you have to go?”

“We managed somehow.”

“What’s the point? Was it supposed to be bad luck or something?”

“Being seen was considered embarrassing.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. As though everyone didn’t have to relieve themselves.”

He shrugged. “It was also cleaner that way, there. In Britannia we didn’t have latrines with proper running water. So you tried to get out of any common spaces.”

Well, if remembering life beyond the Empire meant remembering peeing in a ditch, Marina decided she wasn’t sorry to have missed the experience.

As they walked away afterward, Charelius said, “What about Lucan? Why doesn’t he ever come to the House of the Vestals?”

She shrugged, suddenly reluctant to speak. Lucan was so guarded, so secretive; Marina didn’t want to repeat anything he’d said to her, however ordinary. To him that would seem like a violation. So she chose her words carefully, making sure to only share her own insights. “He’s lost too many people. He feels like caring about them more would only hurt him more when he loses them. Even people he admires, like Bestius – Lucan would rather admire them from afar.”

Charelius had a way of looking at you that reminded you of his Mark, of how much he heard beyond the spoken. “He seems to care very much for you, though.”

Marina’s heart seemed to swell within her chest, as though it strained against unseen bonds. But she only shook her head. “The same thing that makes me deadly to everyone else makes me safe for him.”

Although Charelius said no more, his hand rested briefly on her shoulder. While Marina was denied real touch, even the slight pressure through her stola was comforting.

The gates of the _ludus_ were tall and imposing – metal twisted into spiny forks at the top, to discourage any would-be escapees. Yet most of the slaves within knew escape would be to no avail, and during daytime hours the gates were normally wide open, as they were now. As Marina and Charelius came closer, they could hear the clacking of wooden swords against wooden shields, the grunts and shouts of the gladiators at work. Framed by the open gate was Erich, clearly just done with a practice round, leaning against a post, his body gleaming with sweat. He looked weary – yet angry, as always – until the moment he lifted his head and saw them standing there. A slow grin spread across his face as he came toward Charelius.

Marina ducked inside quickly, the better to leave those two to their kisses at the gate. She went to her room in hopes of taking a few minutes’ rest before she had to start making dinner for the fighters, but found Lucan lying on the bed.

“When did they start letting you take naps?” Marina said, then paled when she saw the bloody rags clutched to Lucan’s belly.

As she gasped, Lucan said, “They put me in as a target for trident practice.”

“Why? They never did that before.”

“They’ve done it before. They’ll do it again.” He stared dully at the wall, waiting out the time his body took to heal – time that would have taken only seconds were it not for the _amissiona._ “Sometimes they think it’s funny.”

What could she do? Water, he’d want water surely – “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

Lucan said nothing else, just lay there.

He guarded his heart so fiercely. Marina wished she were half so good at it. He could care for her only as much as he wanted, while she saw his wounds and felt as though she were the one stabbed instead.

She thought again of Junia. How cruel that someone Marked by the goddess of love should have to remain forever untouched. The task ought to have fallen to Marina, who was condemned to be lonely but could have blamed her vows instead of the gods.

 

2.

 

 

“And the champion – Magnus!”

The voice rang out in the Colosseum, followed by the cheers.

Erich walked out onto the hot sands. The awnings hadn’t been hung today – the morning had been overcast – but now the clouds had burned off and the heat beat down upon fighters and audience alike. Even the air seemed to shimmer with the haze. A pool of blood stained the sand near his feet, left over from a lion that had been slain earlier. Once Erich had come with Lucan to help feed the lions. Savage though they were, they had acted happy to see Lucan, more like kittens than killers. Now this one was gone, another wasted life.

By now Erich was familiar with his armor, what of it there was; the armorer for the _ludus_ had decided that Erich’s body should be largely exposed to the crowd. But he had a strong brace for his shield, a broad shoulder guard, and a helmet that both protected his head and allowed him to see easily through the wide grid over his face. Best of all, armor and weapons were made of metal, singing to him, electric against his skin.

Today’s opponent was another Marked gladiator, but one from another _ludus_ , so Erich had had no chance to study his fighting technique nor his power.  He looked to the gateway as the announced yelled that the challenger was Spinus …

Erich’s eyes widened as his opponent came out, green scales glistening.

_Not human_ , was his first thought – but that was a lie, of course. The Marked were as human as any others. But some Marks transformed their bearers completely, and Spinus had one of these. His broad feet were like those of a lizard; his face snakelike, with fangs and flat yellow eyes. As he stepped forward, closer to Erich, he hissed, and a long, spiked tail dragged behind him.

Would his scales be impervious to Erich’s sword? Did he possess venom like snakes? What was about to be unleashed?

Erich squared his shoulders, tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword. He thought of Charelius, of his blue eyes and the way he kissed. _You fight to see him again. You fight so that he need not mourn you yet. You fight for time._

The horn sounded; instantly, Spinus pounced. His tail lashed around as fast as any whip, and Erich only just managed to parry with his shield. The force of it made him stagger, and the audience howled.

_Marked by Hercules, at least_ , Erich thought, stunned by his opponent’s strength. He had no idea what other gods might have been involved, or who might want to make a man look like a beast. All he knew was that this opponent had the strength to finish him off if he didn’t fight well.

Spinus was stronger. Therefore Erich had to be smarter.

He backed his way around the arena, forcing Spinus to follow him. That spined tail thrashed the air, slamming against Erich’s shield again and again with a force that made his bones ache. But his arm remained in its socket, and Erich allowed his sword to dart out from his hand a few times as a test. Spinus always slashed at it, no doubt hoping to knock it away – and if he knocked it far enough, the damned _amissiona_ would prevent Erich from being able to summon his weapon back.

In the hand, then.

Erich forced himself to take the brunt of it until he thought Spinus might have tired somewhat. Unfortunately this effort exhausted Erich too; his muscles quivered and sweat slicked his skin, trickling down his face and back. But probably Spinus’ mind was as weary as his body, while Erich’s remained focused on his one and only task – learning his opponent’s pattern.

_He swings his tail high several times, trying to wear me down by beating my shield – but when he thinks he can get me, really get me, he swings low, hoping to knock me down._

_So I have to make him think he can get me._

It was a terrible chance to take, but Erich knew it was also his best chance. On the next strike, he let his shield waver, and stumbled forward as though he might fall.

Erich jumped even before the tail’s thrash. It slid harmlessly beneath his feet, and for one split second was at an angle that Spinus could not attack from. In that moment, Erich thrust his sword into Spinus’ chest.

The scream was horrible. The sound was neither human nor inhuman – something he would have expected to hear in Chiron’s boat and not before. He had not struck a quick killing blow, but a fatal one all the same.

Erich slashed forward, stabbing again and again. A thrash of Spinus’ tail finally caught him, but none of the spikes embedded in his flesh, and although Erich stumbled backward and nearly fell, Spinus was past the point of being able to take advantage. He hurled himself forward – this time allowing the sword to fly from his hand and sink deeply into Spinus’ skull.

The tail swung feebly against the sand once more, then went still.

Erich was deaf to the roar that went up from the Colosseum crowds, blind to the coins flung down onto the sand. He thought only of Charelius. _More time._

Afterward, as the arena was prepared for an ostrich hunt, the lanista came to the place where Erich sat on a bench, every limb shaking with exhaustion. “That’s the idea, Magnus. Fight like that at the celebrations next week, and the _rudius_ will be yours.”

Slowly Erich lifted his head. “The _rudius_?”

He knew what it was. He couldn’t help but know. Sometimes, after an exceptional battle – usually at an important set of games, like the Ludi Romani next week – the Emperor would bestow a wooden sword called a _rudius_ on the winning gladiator. To receive the _rudius_ meant not only victory and glory, but also freedom.

Instant, permanent, complete freedom.

 

**

 

“Rumor says the Emperor wants to give a _rudius_ to a Marked gladiator in particular,” Erich explained that night, as he and Charelius bathed together in the still-empty house of the Emelianii. “He knows he’s lost the loyalty of the public and the Senate both, and his indecision about the Marked is part of it. The least the bastard deserves, for letting us work as slaves or fight in the arena to entertain those with lesser gifts.”

“Don’t you dare rant,” Charelius said, though he was grinning. “Not when we have reason to be happy. Are you certain? The emperor is really, truly going to give out a _rudius_ soon?”

“Who can say what the emperor will or won’t do? But he might.”

Charelius’ smile could have lit up the night sky above them. “It will be yours. It has to be. No one else fights like you.”

“How would you know?” Erich regretted this as soon as he’d said it. He knew that Charelius had no time to come to the Colosseum, and that his Mark was far too sensitive for him to endure the bloodbaths in any case. The last thing he wanted was for Charelius to think that his absences were regretted, when Erich was only glad to spare him the pain.  

But Charelius shook his head, still smiling as he washed Erich’s chest. “I see the graffiti on the walls. Sometimes I hear the crowd roar. You’re the talk of Rome, ‘Magnus.’ If anyone gets a _rudius_ , it has to be you. And then you’ll be free.”

_Free._ The thought of it was a constant fire within Erich, one he kept banked for the sake of his sanity – but now it blazed bright and hot. “I have never been free,” he said hoarsely. “I want that life, but I can’t imagine what it will be like.”

“You’ve been saving your money. That’s smart.” Charelius ran his hands through his own wet hair, pulling it back in a way that made him look even younger, and almost vulnerable. “You can set yourself up in a business. Most former gladiators become bodyguards, something like that, but with your Mark, your affinity to metal – ”

“A blacksmith’s shop,” Erich said quietly. He knew nothing of the trade, but had always sensed it would suit him.

“Or an armorer’s. People would like to buy weapons or armor from a former gladiator, a great champion.” Charelius bobbed closer in the water, enough for him to wrap his arms around Erich’s waist. “Perhaps you could find someone older who won’t be able to keep his shop too many years longer. He’d teach you the trade, and then you could buy him out, take it over for yourself.”

That would mean staying in Rome, Erich realized. Forever under the yoke of this immense, evil power …

But attempting to go anywhere else would mean leaving Charelius. Erich could never do that. Even if he were no longer a slave – without Charelius, he could not truly be free.

A little shop, then, where he could work with metal all day long, and some rooms in an insula, and no threat of death – no need to kill – and Charelius visiting him in every spare moment: Now it seemed like the zenith of all Erich’s hopes, all he could ever have hoped for. He embraced Charelius in return, kissed his damp hair. “I’ll win the _rudius_ ,” he promised. “For you, and for us.”

“You’ll be free.” With that, Charelius drew him down for a kiss.

Their long evenings in the empty house of the Emelianii stretched farther and farther as the weeks went on. By now, the lanista was pleased enough with Erich’s prowess in the arena that he let him do very much as he wished; staying out until morning was still frowned upon, but Erich could creep in very late at night. This meant he had long hours to make love to Charelius, to talk with him, drink cheap wine, eat whatever food they’d scrounged up, and make love again. It had been a paradise, one scheduled to end with the imminent return of Lucius Emelianus and his daughter.

_Then that man will avail himself of Charelius once more – touch him, use him, hurt him –_

It was not jealousy Erich felt; he knew full well that Charelius’ heart was his alone, and Charelius’ body would have been too, had Charelius any say in the matter. Instead he remembered how broken Charelius had been when they met – how he’d been weakening, giving in to despair more every day – and feared the return of those bleak times.

Now, Charelius looked more beautiful than he ever had before. He smiled often, babbled on about how much he loved working on the Aeneid, and welcomed Erich joyfully into bed night after night. This was how Charelius was meant to live: safe, happy and loved.

They made their way inside, kissing in the open air, in the mosaic-bright rooms, and finally in the dark close of the bedroom, where only an oil lamp illuminated them for each other. Erich marveled as he ran his hands along Charelius’ chest and thighs, as white as bare marble. “How beautiful you are,” he whispered between kisses, leaning Charelius back onto the bed. “You could be Hyacinth, or Iolaus. You could be Jonathan.”

“Who on Earth is Jonathan?”

“A man from the Torah of Moses. The beloved of David, the greatest king of the Jews.” He remembered that story, though only just.

Charelius smiled up at him, linking his hands around Erich’s neck. “Thank you for comparing me to men. Sometimes Lucius Emelianus calls me Venus, like he forgets I’ve even got a cock. To judge by the lack of attention he gives it, perhaps he _has_ forgotten.”

It gave Erich pause. Did Charelius feel as though he were less of a man?

Mostly, when they made love, they used their hands on one another, or pressed their cocks between each other’s thighs. Every once in a while, though, Charelius would offer his body more fully to Erich, either taking him into his mouth, or allowing Erich to penetrate him. (He always, always left the matter entirely to Charelius; as much as Erich enjoyed being inside him, he remained aware that the same acts they performed together willingly were those Charelius was forced into at other times. Never would Erich want to cause pain, or remind his lover too much of those darker nights.) For all that Charelius seemed to enjoy everything they did together, Erich had never been able to bring himself to reciprocate.

To be an _irrumator_ , or a _pathicus_ – this was to lower one’s self as a man, forever.

_But Charelius is not lowered by what we do together. I could never think less of him for anything he did for the sake of love, for me._

“I’m sorry,” Charelius said quietly, recognizing Erich’s disquiet and misunderstanding the reason for it. “I shouldn’t have mentioned Lucius. For your sake as well as mine.”

“No, it’s not that.” Erich framed Charelius’ face with one broad hand. “I told you before, to me, you are a man. The best of all men.”

“I know –” Charelius said, or tried to say before Erich kissed him.

To offer one’s mouth was the most forbidden of all acts. Damn the Romans and damn their beliefs. There was nothing Erich had that he would not give to Charelius, and now he would prove it.

Gently he pushed Charelius onto the bed, then lowered himself until he could nuzzle his cheek against Charelius’ cock. When Charelius gasped, Erich took it as a good sign. Tentatively he pressed his lips to the head – smiled as he felt it twitch beneath the touch – then repeated in a whisper as he gently pulled back the foreskin, “You are a man.”

“Erich – _ohh_.”

So _this_ was the forbidden? The unspeakable horror? Charelius tasted _good_ in his mouth – salty, and primal, instinctively right. Erich began to suck, delighting in the way Charelius writhed beneath him.

How was it Charelius did this? Erich could not imagine that the act could be performed any better than that. He opened his mouth wider, inviting Charelius to move – to pump into him just like this. Curling his tongue around Charelius was almost impossible, the way they were both moving, but simply trying seemed to do the trick.

Charelius’ fingers twined in Erich’s long hair, tugging almost hard enough to hurt. There was something delicious in this, Erich decided – bringing Charelius to the point of total abandon. The Romans talked as though giving one’s mouth to one’s lover was an act of degradation; instead it made Erich feel masterful, in complete control.

He started sucking harder, reveling in the raggedness of Charelius’ breath, the way his motions sped up, jerked and –

Charelius pulled out of Erich’s mouth just before he came, spattering hot all over Erich’s shoulder and chest. He lay there, panting and wrecked, and Erich felt himself smiling.

“I told you that you were a man,” he murmured, dropping another quick kiss on Charelius’ still-swollen cock.

The only reply was Charelius’ hands pulling him up so that they could kiss – long and deep, tongues drinking each other in. Erich stiffened to full hardness within moments, and soon Charelius’ oiled fingers were guiding his cock between Charelius’ thighs.

As much as Erich enjoyed doing this along with Charelius, he found he liked it even more now after Charelius had already finished. There was something so utterly tantalizing about the feeling of Charelius nearly boneless beneath him with spent pleasure, his pupils wide and dark, pale skin flushed and sweaty –

_Beautiful_ , Erich thought, as his climax rippled through him, slicking Charelius’ thighs.

Afterward, as Charelius dozed in his arms, Erich stroked his hair and looked around the elegant room that surrounded them. Even now they were making love in another man’s bed.

As an armorer, he could not expect a home nearly so grand as this. A few rooms, a few sticks of crude furniture, maybe a couple of pieces of mass-produced statuary if he felt like prettying the place up, which probably he wouldn’t.

But if it were his home as a free man – the home to which he could welcome Charelius – it would be grander than any mansion on the Palatine. Erich would give up his bitterness, forget his terrible past, and ask for no more.

 

 

3.

 

Betrothed, at last.

Emeliana knew she ought to feel elated, and usually she did. From the night her father had come to her and said he had made the necessary arrangements with Gaius Sempronius Scota, she’d been delighted with the prospect of marrying Alexander. He was noble, wealthy, handsome and in the favor of the general likely to become the next emperor – as magnificent a catch as any girl in Rome could dream of.

Yet she could not help feeling a little bit … unsure.

“That’s only natural, domina,” Charelius told her on the afternoon of her return, while he unpacked her things. “Brides are supposed to be nervous.”

“It’s not _that_ ,” Emeliana said crossly. Everyone giggled about brides being scared of sex, which was ludicrous. As though she hadn’t seen as many erotic murals as anyone else. “It’s the thought of moving into another house, and spending all my time with Alexander, when I hardly know him yet.”

“Did you not become better acquainted in Baiae?”

“A little.” They had seen each other at various dinners, at which she had played the part of the proper Roman girl … and thus had said almost nothing.

Charelius paused, several folded silk _stolae_ in his hands. “Do you dislike what you know of Alexander, domina?”

“No, no! I didn’t mean that.” Alexander seemed to be intelligent, dedicated to his army service and loyal to Sebastianus. He was affectionate with his parents, considerate toward her and handsomer than she had dared dream of for her husband. No doubt she would learn more about him in time, but she had no misgivings. “I suppose I meant that I’m not sure he knows much about me, besides the fact that I’m pretty and rich. And Marked.”

The _stolae_ were set down on one of the trunks, and Charelius came to her side, standing in front of her on her couch. “You have far more to offer than that, domina. You have a sharp mind and a good heart. Alexander will see, in time.”

Emeliana couldn’t help smiling then. “Do you really think so?”

“Love has a way of unfolding our true selves. Revealing us to each other. It’s frightening – caring so much for someone else, giving them your heart – but it’s worth the fear, domina. Love is worth everything.”

His soft smile – the way his blue eyes seemed to be gazing at someone who wasn’t present –

Emeliana gasped. “You’re in love!”

Immediately Charelius straightened. “Forgive me, domina. I didn’t mean to -- digress.”

“Oh, no, you don’t. I told you all about my love affair, and now you have to tell me yours.” She could have wriggled with glee. Charelius looked so cute when he was in love. “Who is she? Another slave? A freedwoman?”

“Not a lady, _domina_. One of the Marked gladiators.”

Emeliana giggled. Imagine Charelius playing the girl to someone! Then again, the gladiators were rather beautifully built, so who could blame him there, and Charelius was only a few years older than her, still young enough to swoon over other men. “Which one?”

“Magnus,” he admitted. “Please don’t tell anyone.” By now his cheeks were pink. How adorable, that he should be so shy.

“Magnus,” Emeliana repeated.  Yes, she remembered the one; he was incredibly handsome. No wonder Charelius had fallen for him. “He’s supposed to be a fearsome fighter. You must be scared to death every time he goes into the arena. My poor Charelius!”

“I do worry for him, domina. But apparently the emperor plans to bestow a _rudius_ soon. There seems a good chance Magnus could win it.”

“Oh, he will. I’m sure he will.” She patted Charelius’ arm comfortingly. If Domitian were not so generous, perhaps when Sebastianus took over, she could ask Alexander to put in a good word. It pleased her to think of Charelius being happy, perhaps because it made the prospect of her own future happiness seem more tangible. “Well, you know I don’t intend to leave you behind when I marry. So if you want to see your gladiator some evening, just say the word and I’ll see if I can spare you.”

“I’ll go with you, domina? To your new home?” Charelius’ smile had never looked so joyful. Emeliana had never imagined that he was so attached to her.

Touched, she said, “Of course you will. What would I do without you?” Her generosity, buoyed by hopes of her own happier future, became almost boundless. “And look here. If your gladiator is freed, and gets good honest work – have him come to me. I’m sure I can talk Alexander into selling you to him for a very reasonable price, much less than you’re worth. I bet he could buy you within a year or two. Then he can free you, or keep you as concubinus, whatever the two of you prefer.”

By now Charelius was beside himself. He looked almost as if he might fall down, so great was his joy; Emeliana very nearly rose and offered him the couch. “Do you mean it? Truly, domina?”

“Really and truly.” She took her hands in his. “That way, you can save all that money you’ve already earned. Use it to buy your sister’s freedom, when you find her.”

Tears glistened in Charelius’ eyes. “You are too good, domina. Thank you.”

Emeliana was more moved than she dared let on. Honestly, getting so caught up in the concerns of slaves was hardly proper. Yet Charelius had always been more than just another slave to her, and Emeliana thought there could be no harm in admitting it.

Later that evening, though, after Charelius had finished unpacking and she was preparing for bed, Emeliana began to have doubts. What if Alexander felt odd about her having a male personal slave? Emeliana felt certain she could make Charelius’ role in her life clear, particularly once she explained more about Charelius’ Mark. Alexander respected the Marks of the gods, so he was likely to admire Charelius’ talents. But would she have a chance to explain to him before the wedding? It was entirely possible she would not speak to Alexander again until their wedding day.

And what if Alexander were cheap? Unwilling to sell Charelius for less than he was worth? Emeliana chewed on one of her fingernails, trying to guess. Sometimes the richest men were the cheapest, and of course Charelius was a very valuable slave – fluent in several languages, and a capable scribe almost fully trained.

_What if I’ve made a promise to Charelius that I can’t keep?_ That would be horrible. While she sensed that Charelius would not blame her, she knew she would blame herself.

_Well, then, I won’t leave it up to Alexander_ , Emeliana decided. It would be better to see to it before the wedding.

She tossed a silken wrapper around her and padded toward her father’s library. Just as she walked in, he had risen to walk out – and instead of his usual warmth, he seemed a bit impatient, as though there were something he were eager to do. Honestly, at this hour of the night. He never knew when to stop. “Father, I want to ask you for something.”

“What have I ever denied you, my jewel?” Impatient or not, Lucius Emelianus smiled at her.

“It’s about my wedding gift. You were going to give me one, weren’t you?”

“Of course! Now, what bauble do you have your heart set on? Tell me quickly, so we can on to bed.”

Oh, he was only tired, that was all. She’d make it quick. She’d explain about Charelius and his love for his gladiator, and how the best wedding present of all would be to set her favorite slave free. Then her wedding day would be the happiest of both their lives.

Emeliana feared for her future marriage no more. How easy it was, after all, to create happiness.

 

 

4.

 

_Three more days until the games_ , Charelius thought. _Three more days until Erich wins his rudius._

Of course there were no guarantees. The emperor might not be merciful enough to award anyone a _rudius_ … or Erich could be hurt, could be killed …

No. Even the gods could not be so vicious.

He’d been unable to go to the baths that morning; he’d hurried to work early, knowing that if he did, he’d be able to finish the very last words of the Aeneid by lunchtime. Of course he wouldn’t be paid today. The money would be given to Lucius Emelianus, who would dispense Charelius’ portion later. Normally he did so very promptly – if only because it gave him an excuse to summon Charelius to his room, and expect gratitude.

Charelius grimaced as he walked along the streets, ink still staining his fingers and his happy client’s praise gone silent in his memory. All he could think of now was that Lucius Emelianus would summon him to his bed again soon.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t gone from Erich to his master before. But after so many happy nights with Erich in that very bedroom, Charelius would find it more difficult to submit again, to compare those memories with the reality of Lucius Emelianus using him.

_Submit you will._ Charelius could finally see the reality of a brighter future – a good life, as a free man, with the person he loved. _Play along just a little while longer. The wedding is in two weeks. After that, you’ll probably never have to touch Lucius Emelianus again, and Erich will be free. Isn’t that worth another few nights on your knees?_

He could bear it. He would. Besides, maybe Lucius Emelianus’ ardor had cooled during his long absence from Rome. Charelius had slept poorly all last night, expecting to be called for, but no call had come. Perhaps some wily courtesan in Baiae had won his master’s favor. If so, he hoped someday to learn that woman’s name (or man’s, whichever), so that he might know whom to ask the gods to bless.

Charelius glanced up at the cloudy sky; the October rains were coming early this year, and Lucius Emelianus had told him to meet the family at the basilica of Julius around lunchtime. That promised a long day of errands, and probably heavy parcels to carry, but Charelius felt the wild energy that only came with hope.

Soon he would be able to tell Erich of Emeliana’s plans. Should he tell him before the big fight? Would it distract him from his preparations, or give him even more to fight for?

While Charelius was debating this, a smile on his face, he reached the basilica of Julius. He had to walk nearly all the way around it, back by the slave market, before he found the Emelianii. Although he felt a shudder of horror at the old memories, he forced himself to look at the market. Several dozen slaves huddled there, either in holding pens like cages or on the platform for inspection. They were all naked, so that potential buyers could see exactly what they were getting. Supposedly this was so no handicaps would be hidden, and health could be ascertained. But Charelius now knew many owners also looked for beauty. For someone to warm their beds. Just as Lucius Emelianus had done.  

It tore him raw to see the slaves standing there. A few were clearly being resold – they looked pitifully vulnerable, yet understood what was going on. They held themselves with what dignity they could muster, trying to make eye contact with potential buyers who seemed kindly. Worse by far were the poor Germans, dirty and trembling with terror, not comprehending what awaited them or even a word that was spoken. Charelius remembered what it had been like to be that unknowing, that scared.

For a moment he remembered how desperately he’d clung to his sister’s hand – the way they had dragged her away from him – and then he forced himself to look even harder at the market. To take in each and every face, and to imagine what the little girl he had known might look like now.

But none of these were his sister. He’d known she wouldn’t be here, but … well. Charelius turned his attention back to the family he served.

As he raised his hand in greeting, Emeliana smiled prettily at him; she wore a rose-pink _stola_ and _palla_ , by far the most beautiful and fashionable girl in sight. Charelius resolved to tell her so immediately.

But as soon as he walked up to them, Lucius Emelianus took him roughly by the shoulder and swung him around toward the man standing nearby …

A slave trader.

“This is the one I told you about,” Lucius Emelianus said. His voice was as cold as the Tiber in winter. “He’s taken to running around in his spare time. Never can find him about the place. Not fit for a proper household any longer.”

“Dominus– ” The plea stuck in Charelius’ throat. Already he knew why he was being sold, and that no matter how much he begged, it would do no good.

“Father, what are you doing?” Emeliana’s eyes widened.

Already the slave master was running his hands over Charelius, an impersonal touch meant only to test his soundness. “You there. Take that off.”

He meant Charelius’ tunic.

Charelius hesitated only a moment before removing his clothes. Lucius Emelianus snatched it back, so that Charelius stood naked but for the sign around his neck. Nobody paid him any mind. Now he was just one more pathetic slave at the market, simply more of the merchandise.

He remembered Erich looking down at his naked body as though he were precious, irreplaceable – _human_ –

“Father, no!” Emeliana began tugging at her father’s arm. “You can’t sell Charelius. I told you, I want his freedom for a wedding gift! You can’t have forgotten that!”

“You’re young. You still let yourself sympathize with them. Well, time you learned better, as you’re about to become a wife and run a household of your own.” Lucius Emelianus, who had spent years abusing Charelius’ body, no longer even bothered to look at it. “Slaves can’t be allowed to run around, getting up to whatever they want with whoever they want. Any slave who does that is only fit for manual labor.”

“Charelius is a scribe! He makes money for you!” Emeliana protested.

Charelius thought of his little bag of money with a pang. He would be unable to get it now, even to give it to Erich. Probably that vile kitchen slave would find the money eventually, use the fruits of Charelius’ hard work to buy his own freedom.

_We were so close_ , he whispered in his mind. He imagined Erich standing in front of him, careworn face newly wounded. _We were days from happiness. Only days. And it’s all gone, because I loved you so much I could not hide it._

_Forgive me, my love. Forgive me._

“Trained as a scribe?” The slave master pushed open Charelius’ mouth to have a look at his teeth. “Then he’s worth more than you’d get selling him to me.”

Lucius Emelianus, for once in his grasping, moneygrubbing life, cared nothing for profit. “I told you, he’s not fit to be a decent house slave. Only fit for the mines.”

_The mines._ Charelius could not help shuddering. When he saw Lucius Emelianus smile slightly, he knew his former master took pleasure in this degradation, and the certainty of his impending death.

“No, you can’t!” Emeliana was almost hysterical now. Charelius could tell through his Mark that she wanted to physically grab him and not let go, save that touching a naked male slave in the market would have eternally disgraced them both. “Father, why are you doing this?”

“This one ought to have stayed at home.” Lucius Emelianus looked at Charelius then, almost smirking. His pride had been injured, hearing that his favorite slave to bed sought pleasure with another. Only crushing Charelius completely would make him feel like a man again. “He had a place there. He knew what he had to do. But it wasn’t enough for him. Had to go play the girl for a gladiator.”

“But why … why would you care if he …” Emeliana’s voice trailed off as she saw her father, _really_ saw him, and glimpsed the truth.

How often Charelius had wished she would grow up. How often he had wanted to see the day when Emeliana would stop being a giddy young girl and become the wiser woman he knew she had the potential to be. And yet it was terrible to see it actually happen – to see her recognize her father as a man who would abuse his own slaves, then destroy one of them in a mere fit of pique. The horror in her expression now was not that of a disappointed child; it was that of a woman who realized her carelessness had done terrible, irreparable harm.

When Lucius Emelianus spoke again, he did not address his daughter. “The girl pampers them, you see. As though they were pets instead of property. She’s ruined this one. She’d ruin her father too – thinks she can get whatever she wants from me – but she’s getting married soon. Best show her she doesn’t run the Empire before her new husband curses me for making him do it, hmm?”

“Very well then,” the slave master said, then called to an assistant. “Get this one in the wagon. He’s going with the others.”

As the placard around his neck was removed and given back to Lucius Emelianus, Charelius heard Emeliana say, “I’m sorry – I didn’t know – ”

He could spare no time to soothe Emeliana’s conscience. His entire being focused on one fact: They were in the Forum Romanum, not far from the House of the Vestals.

_Junia, hear me, hear me._

No answering voice echoed within his mind. Yet it seemed to Charelius that he sensed her consciousness awakening to his … that she could hear him, even if she could not answer. Desperately he sent to Junia, _I’m being sold to the mines. Please tell Erichthonius what has become of me. Otherwise he’ll wait for me and never know –_

His concentration was broken by Emeliana’s begging. “Father, please, _please_.” Tears stained her cheeks.

Lucius Emelianus simply continued talking with the slave master. “I once thought the masters who had their lads castrated were taking too big a risk with their property. Now I see the sense of it.”

The slave master shook his head.

Emeliana looked at Charelius, obviously trying to find words to say and finding none. Charelius knew he did not blame her, but that knowledge was still too raw for him to give it voice. Yet he would have said some sort of farewell had the handlers not taken hold of him then, dragging him away.

They hoisted him roughly into a wagon along with half a dozen other naked men in varying degrees of wretchedness. Germans, mostly, still wild-eyed at the hubbub of Rome, not even possessing the language skills to know where they were going – but they, too, sensed they were doomed. Charelius did not require his Mark to know it.

His wrists were shackled; now it was impossible for him to sit. Charelius knew he would not be unbound until he reached the mine. Until then he would remain chained, metal working into his flesh with every jostle and creak of this splintered old wagon, his naked body exposed to the sun.

When they reached the mine, he would begin the work that would kill him within months.

Somehow the worst of all was that he would never see Erich again. Erich who had been denied so much, had asked for so little of life …

Charelius would have prayed for the gods to at least grant Erich his freedom at last, but by now he knew the gods had turned their faces from him forever, if they had ever seen him at all. 


	5. New Masters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roman names! 
> 
> Charles = Charelius  
> Erik = Erich (Erichthonius)  
> Emma = Emeliana  
> Logan = Lucan  
> Marie/Rogue = Marina  
> Jean = Junia  
> Henry/Beast = Bestius  
> Alexander = Alexander (yay!)  
> Scott = Scota  
> Kitty/Shadowcat = Catula  
> Sebastian = Sebastianus  
> Kurt/Nightcrawler = Curio
> 
> **

1.

 

Erich waited at the baths for Charelius, to no avail.

That wasn’t so unusual. With neither of them free to come and go entirely as they wished, and none of the wealth it would have taken to hire messengers to run back and forth, they simply had to wait in vain some mornings. Charelius had often waited for him; Erich did not mind waiting in turn.

When finally he realized Charelius wasn’t coming, around midmorning, Erich decided against bathing alone. Already he was becoming Roman in his fastidiousness, enjoying bathing and cleanliness for its own sake, but he could skip a day and save the money for a morning when Charelius would be there.

The day had broken hot and bright, defying the autumn. By now, when Erich walked the streets, he was used to being recognized. Although many people looked down upon him as slave and gladiator, others brightened. These, no doubt, were the sort who wrote graffiti like _Magnus makes the girls sigh_ and _Magnus is the hammer of Vulcan._ The sort who liked to watch men kill themselves for an afternoon’s sport. Their admiration was meaningless to Erich, more irritant than balm.

Like that tavern owner who had told Erich that if he’d come by of an evening and drink in front of the window to the street, he could have all but his first drink for free. Because it would bring in business, he said. The Romans would never cease to be strange.

He’d have to ask Charelius about that. Maybe he could explain it.

When Erich got back to the ludus, the trainer was waiting for him. “About time you showed your face.”

“Are we beginning earlier?”

The trainer shook his head in annoyance. “No, but you’ve got yourself a lady friend hoping to see you. High and mighty, this one. The type I don’t like to keep waiting. Watch yourself.”

Erich had no lady friends, and even the trainer should have known it. Maybe it was someone from that gathering of the Marked Charelius put so much stock in, even though they never actually did anything. He hoped it wasn’t some society maven hoping to hire a “bodyguard” for the night; many gladiators took such work with the full understanding that they were to do more with the lady’s body than simply guard it.

He walked into his small room, from brilliance into shade, and in the momentary blindness that followed, he could only make out a female form draped in pale cloth. Erich blinked, then startled as he realized who stood there.

“Magnus. I had to see you,” said Emeliana. Her soft hands were clasped together in front of her, and she seemed to have trouble forcing out the words. “I have news you need to hear.”

There could be only one reason for her to come to him. Erich braced his hand against the doorjamb. “What has happened to Charelius?”

“My father sold him to the mines.”

It fell on Erich like scalding oil from a parapet, burning him down to rage and bone. Charelius, gone. Charelius, doomed. All their modest hopes for the future ruined at a stroke, all at the whim of a Roman.

Desperation told him to run out of the ludus, to try and find the mine where Charelius was, to rescue him in any way possible – but Erich knew desperation was making him a fool. Mines were located throughout the entire Empire. Charelius could be headed in any direction, at least a day gone and maybe more, which put him beyond finding.

_Charelius is as good as dead. Charelius is gone forever. I’ll never see him again._

The words flooded from Emeliana now, as if the worst had been holding back the rest. “I asked my father to free him, or at least agree to sell him to you cheaply once you were free yourself. Charelius had told me about the two of you, and I thought – I thought you should be together. But I didn’t realize that my father ... that he … I didn’t realize he would mind Charelius being with someone else. I shouldn’t have spoken, but I didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t know.” The moments had slowed to an excruciating crawl, one in which Erich’s fury and pain rose up, walling him in, blocking out everything but himself and his loss and the stupid, ignorant Roman girl who had damned Charelius. “He starved himself and denied himself sleep all so that he could bear being raped by your father night after night, right in your house, only feet away from you, but you _didn’t know_.”

Emeliana cringed. “Father’s not – he’s usually so kind to me, that I never dreamed – ”

“Kind to you. He’s kind _to you_ and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

Erich knew she was only a poor substitute for her father. It was Lucius Emelianus he wanted to beat to a bloody pulp, Lucius Emelianus who deserved to die screaming at his feet. He could imagine summoning every nail from the wooden buildings, every pin from every stola, every scrap and shard of metal he could pull to him, the better to fashion into blades with which he could scrape Lucius Emelianus’ meat from his bones.

In Lucius Emelianus’ absence, the daughter would do.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her so that her palla fell from her fair hair. “Do you know what it’s like in the mines? You can’t, can you? I spent more years in a mine than any other living man, so I can tell you. It’s chains cutting into your flesh. It’s more work than the human body can take, weight that pulls your arms from their sockets and tools that wear away the skin of your hands, but you have to take it, you have to keep working while you bleed and curse the gods and pray to die. They whip you to make you work faster, though they starve you and leave you in the baking sun, and the guards laugh and take bets as to who will die first today. And Charelius – ” Erich’s voice broke. “That’s where Charelius is now. That’s where he will die. Thanks to you.”

By now Emeliana was sobbing. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

As though her apologies were worth anything. Erich threw her roughly against the wall; she cried out in pain and gripped her shoulder. He wanted to call her a bitch and a whore, wanted to tear her pretty hair from her scalp in bleeding hanks … and yet he could only think of Charelius in the mines, despairing and alone.

The moment was lost. Still crumpled against the wall, Emeilana summoned her Mark of Juno; she shimmered into solid diamond, translucent and invulnerable. Her cry had been heard by those outside, and immediately the trainer and a few gladiators appeared at the door. “What’s going on here?” the trainer demanded. “Lady, are you hurt?”

Slaves who injured noblewomen – were they executed straight away? Erich found himself hoping that they were.

But Emeliana shook her head. “I’m fine. I was surprised, that’s all.”

“Surprised by what?” one of the gladiators chortled. “Magnus still has his clothes on.”

Erich stared at him, and the gladiator fell silent again.

The trainer remained suspicious. “You’re sure? If this one’s given you any trouble – ”

“He hasn’t. I should be going. My errand here is – it’s over.” She looked at Erich once more, but her expression was unreadable in her diamond form. Then she strode out of his room, out of his life.

“You think you’re funny,” Erich said to the gladiator. “You think I’d whore myself out to the Romans. The lowest, vilest scum of this earth – the ones who have destroyed my Charelius – and you think I’d be their whore.”

“Steady,” the trainer said, as though Erich were just another beast. “Steady now.”

It could not be borne. It would not be borne.

He called upon his Mark of Vulcan, reaching out to every scrap of metal in the _ludus_ : nails, the weapons and armor behind their locked door, the gates themselves. Each and every bit of metal Erich called, with all his strength.

And his strength was not what it ought to have been. Not with the _amissiona_. But it was enough to draw blood.

Erich shoved past the men at his doorway and walked into the open training ground. The door to the weapons shook and rattled as the swords within battered at it, trying to get out, to flee to his hand. But the tips of the metal gate bent inward and peeled off, points of metal flying toward Erich along with the nails and other scraps of metal he had. From these he could fashion his own weapons, and …

… and what? It didn’t matter. He’d kill some Romans, and then some more, on and on until they killed him in turn.

The metal spun itself into the shape of a sword in front of him; Erich seized it and turned back on his trainer, who’d had the presence of mind to grab a wooden shield. Erich slashed at it mercilessly, with such strength entire body ached, but his own pain didn’t and couldn’t matter. As splinters from the shield sprayed into the air, he yelled, “You’re only the first, do you hear me? Only the first!”

Then full weight hit him hard on one side, and Erich staggered back to see the other gladiator – attacking not the trainer who oppressed them both, but Erich. Others were lining up to do the same.

_Fools. They will kiss the boot that steps on the back of their necks. I have no use for fools._

Erich spun, lifting his weapon for a killing blow – but at that moment, Lucan leaped forward, claws extended, and slashed. The gladiator screamed as he went down, chest cut to ribbons. Lucan looked at Erich like, _I don’t know what the fuck you’re doing but, fine, let’s fight._

That was what they needed. Two, and then three, and then more … and sure enough, Marina was running to them, hands bare, forcing the others back …

But then something struck Erich hard from behind, hard enough to stun him. He didn’t drop – the fight that ensued lasted several minutes – but too many of the Marked sided with their keepers, and when one of them got a gloved hand around Marina’s neck Lucan surrendered, and far too soon, they were down.

As Erich knelt, bleeding, in the sand, his hands roped behind his back, the trainer yelled, “You complain about being treated like animals, and then you act like them! You get what you deserve.”

Did they think Charelius had gotten what he deserved? His beautiful love, even now suffering in the mines? Erich closed his eyes tightly as they forced back his head and poured _amissiona_ down his throat – more it than ever before, so much that he became numb to metal entirely. They did the same to Lucan, forced down beside him; Marina had simply been cuffed and left to weep in the sand. When they were no longer any danger to anyone, they were released, and there was nothing for him to do but crawl back into his cell.

Erich lowered himself onto his bed, where he sat with his arms braced on either side of him. He was aware of the trainer still shouting at him, but the words of others were meaningless. After a while they left him alone.

For hours he sat there, trying to imagine Charelius in the hell of the mines, then trying not to imagine it. Had it been only a handful of days since they’d laid together, exhilarated by each other’s touch, drowsily kissing each other to sleep? It seemed impossible to Erich that he had ever been so happy, that such a man as Charelius could ever have been his.

Charelius being whipped – Charelius hungry, starving, knowing himself doomed –

It could not be borne, and yet this was what they both had to bear.

Erich did not speak until nearly nightfall. By this time he was not alone in his room.

“Why would you ever sell a trained scribe to the mines?” Marina said. She sat in the far corner, her eyes red from weeping, one cheek swollen and purple from the blows they had given her. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Who knows why Romans do anything?” Lucan took a deep drag on his _amissiona_ cigar. What few wounds he had taken still gleamed red on his skin, but they had closed and bled no more. “The guy’s rich. He can afford to waste a few sesterces if he wants to. And that’s all we ever are to them – sesterces and denarii, plain and simple.”

Erich’s voice sounded as if he had not spoken for years. “For spite. Lucius Emelianus sold him out of spite.”

Marina and Lucan glanced at each other, startled, but they were too wise to overreact. She simply poured some water into an earthenware cup and handed it to Erich, who took it almost out of reflex.

He said, “So, you know.”

“We were wondering what set you off. The Vestal Junia sent a messenger, a couple of hours ago.” Lucan didn’t elaborate.

No words of sympathy were offered; they would have been inadequate, and Erich was grateful that the others knew it. He was beyond being comforted, but at least now he knew what Marina and Lucan were really made of, that they were not miserable dogs like the others in this ludus. More than that, it was good to see that others were troubled by Charelius’ fate, that Marina had cried for him and Lucan had raged on his behalf.  Charelius had been someone; he had mattered.

The mines would not care.

 

**

 

The next day, the games began. Flowers were lifted high in nets, then cut free to shower upon the Colosseum crowds. Ten of Lucan’s beloved panthers were shot dead by Ethiopian archers. Marina had to slaughter another pack of criminals, maidenhair and narcissus wreath upon her head. The Emperor Domitian sat in his box, purple robes and golden laurels little disguising his paranoia; the crowds he hoped to entertain were the same ones who wondered how soon he might be overthrown. All the grandeur of these games – all the blood already staining the sands – was a desperate bid for the people’s support, and everyone knew it.

Erich had thought to win a _rudius_ today. This should have been the night when he stood in front of Charelius a free man at last.

Instead, as he stood in front of the emperor in his armor, he barely had the will to raise high his sword.

For a moment his eyes locked with the emperor’s. This day was hollow to them both – empty and meaningless, a delay on the road to death. And yet still the emperor slaughtered beasts and men, because it was expected of him.

Erich was done with Roman expectations.

It wasn’t that he didn’t fight back – no man could help raising his shield against another’s blow. The body was stupid, bestial, determined to live even when the reason for life was gone.  Still, with his Mark all but taken from him by the enormous dose of _amissiona_ he’d been given the day before, his main weapon had been taken away.

So Erich refused to provide any of the show the Romans longed for. Let them see this for exactly what it was: two mortals forced to saw at each other until they were no more than blood and guts.

When his opponent slammed his shield into Erich’s gut, robbing him of breath, Erich went down to his knees. Another slam, and he was flat on his back. The sword’s point found the hollow of his throat. Erich lifted his chin slightly, making it easier.

 _It’s over,_ he thought with no emotion stronger than relief. _I’ll have no coin to pay Charon, but no matter. I’ll wait by the Styx for Charelius. He will be with me before long. We’ll cross the river together._

The other gladiator looked up into the crowd. Thousands of people were even now shrieking for him to finish the once-mighty Magnus, but only one person’s opinion mattered, that of the emperor himself. Erich closed his eyes against the sunlight overhead, thinking never to see light again.

But then the crowd grew quieter. Went still. The voice of one woman could be heard, calling out firm and strong: “Mercy!”

Erich opened his eyes.

There, standing on the platform reserved for the Vestals, stood Junia. The breeze caught her white robes and palla, and turned her auburn hair as red as flame. Once more, as nearly the only voice in the Colosseum, she called to Domitian, “Mercy!”

The Vestals were the most sacred persons in Rome, save for the emperor himself. They even had the power to pardon convicted criminals. They did not have the power to determine the fate of slave gladiators – but a Vestal’s wish mattered to the crowd. The mood within this vast stadium had shifted in an instant. If a Vestal Virgin wished a man to live, then so too did the people.

Slowly the murmur began, turning into a chant. “Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!”

Domitian was a cruel man; everyone knew it. But he was not a man secure enough on his throne to ignore the masses. He raised his hand, turned his thumb – and the sword was drawn back from Erich’s throat.

“Get up, then,” the gladiator said grumpily. No wonder he was displeased. If he’d killed a fighter as famed as “Magnus,” the _rudius_ probably would have been his. “Clear the way for the next bout.”

Erich rose. He was aware of the Vestal Junia looking down at him, but he refused to meet her eyes. No doubt she thought she was doing a kindness for Charelius’ sake, and for that Erich could honor her. But Junia had condemned him to continue living on in a world without Charelius in it.

 

 

2.

 

“It won’t always hurt this much,” said Emeliana’s aunt, her hand bracing Emeliana’s shoulder. “Never again, you’ll see.”

Emeliana nodded, knowing her aunt had seen the tears in her eyes. But the momentary pain wasn’t why she was weeping. Instead she found herself weighted down, drowning in guilt.

Nothing had seemed right since her father sold Charelius, and nothing would ever again – not even the preparations for her wedding, such as her visit to this temple.

Her aunt helped Emeliana to rise from where she knelt upon the marble phallus; as she slipped off its length, she could see a faint smudge of her blood left behind. “Now, Emeliana, if you get pregnant just after your marriage, the child may be fathered by one of the gods. Only think of your happiness then.” 

 _What right do I have to be happy?_ Emeliana thought. _It ought to be me in the mines, not Charelius._

She had tried to talk about this with her aunt and with a few friends, but they had scoffed at her. How silly, to be so upset over the sale of a mere slave.

Once, Emeliana knew, she would have thought the same. But her Mark of Minerva let her see more deeply into other people, and showed her that slaves were no different from anyone else. Charelius had been a companion to her, almost a friend …

Yes. He had been a friend to her. But she hadn’t been his friend in return, not if he had suffered while she was too blind to see it.

This was what came of neglecting her Mark of Minerva. Had she developed her skills – practiced with Charelius, as she was always meant to do – then she would have seen more. The truth could not have been hidden from her then, and maybe she could have thought of a way to stop her father from hurting him. At the very least, she would have known to keep Charelius’ secret, and then she might have taken him along with her when she married so that they would all be happy.

Her throat tightened, and Emeliana forced back the tears. If she started crying again, the women at the temple would think she was a timid virgin frightened of her wedding night. Whatever else she might become from now on, she did not intend to be timid.

 

**

 

Her wedding day was the first truly cool day of autumn, the first one with a chill in the air. “I hope that’s not a bad omen,” Lucius Emelianus said. “I’m sure it’s not. But we have time to consult with the augurs if you’re worried, my jewel.”

“How could cool autumn weather be an ill omen? That’s the way it should be, by mid-September.” Emeliana sat very still as her aunt settled the flame-colored bridal veil over her head.  

“Quite right, of course. I worry, that’s all.” Her father stepped back and smiled, glowing with pride. “Look at you. The loveliest bride in Rome. Now, the canopy-bearers are ready, and I’ve hired some marvelous dancers. Ready for your procession?”

“Almost,” Emeliana replied, then turned to her aunt and said, “Leave us, please.”

As her aunt left, Lucius Emelianus clasped his hands together. “How I wish your mother could have lived to see you today. She would have been very proud.”

_Would you still have abused your slave boys if Mother were here? Did you do so when she was alive, and was she tormented by the knowledge? Or was she as blithely ignorant as I was?_

Emeliana said only, “Today I leave your keeping. From now on my husband will be my lord and master, he and only he.”

“Alexander will make a good husband. I feel sure of that.”

Would he? Alexander was still so unknown to her – the person behind his handsome face a mystery – oh, why hadn’t she practiced her Mark of Minerva more? That would be one more thing she had to change.

She stood in front of her father and said, “At the moment I pass into Alexander’s keeping, I will no longer know you.”

“Don’t be silly, my jewel,” Lucius Emelianus chuckled. “I’ll visit nearly every day, you’ll see.”

“No, you won’t.” It was as though her voice alone bore Juno’s Mark, as though she had turned it into blades of diamond that could cut right through him. “My door will be closed to you. Your name will not be spoken by me. You will never see any grandchildren I bear. No matter what kind of husband Alexander makes, I will never divorce him, because I’ll never return to this house, ever again.”  

Lucius Emelianus staggered back a step, incredulous. “Emeliana! What has gotten into you?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

“Is this still about that slave? Whyever are you making such a fuss?”

“So that you’ll know what it’s like to lose someone you love! So that you finally see what you did to Charelius!”

“He was my slave. My property. Mine to do with as I wished. I could have cut his throat on any given day and it would have been nobody’s business but mine. You know this as well as anyone.”

“If he was nothing to you, then why not let him go, or at least let him buy his freedom? Why should you care that he loved someone?” Emeliana spat back.

Her father spoke to her as though she were too stupid to understand. “The principle of the thing.”

“Principle! You claim you sold Charelius to the mines out of principle?”

“The principle of obedience. Slaves are to obey their masters, just as people are to obey their emperor, and children their fathers, and all of us the gods,” he snapped, his anger finally matching her own. “If we let disobedience go unpunished, the result is anarchy. You’re too young to remember the year of turmoil, the year we had four emperors, their factions fighting in the streets and no man sure whether he’d be proscribed tomorrow. Well, I remember it, and I know the importance of keeping everyone in his proper place.”

As though Charelius’ place had been in his bed. “May Pluto and Dis Pater take your ‘proper places’!”

Lucius Emelianus shook his head. “Talk like that tempts ill fortune.”

“No fortune worse than being the daughter of a man so cruel,” Emeliana said, and her father’s pain shot through her like an arrow. Why did her Mark of Minerva have to choose this moment to show her what was in his heart, after it could do no good?

There was no understanding the gods, she thought. They did what they would, and mortals could only endure.

The ceremony itself was surreal. Although Emeliana was of course a part of it, she felt as though it were happening around her and she could only watch, numbly, as though in a dream. As ceremony demanded, Alexander arrived to “abduct” her; her aunt, standing in for her mother, tried to hold onto her but of course let Emeliana be torn away. She repeated the words, “Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia,” watched her father sign the wedding contract and even helped Alexander sacrifice the usual pig without ever feeling as though this could be a part of her real life.

As the procession made its way from her father’s house to the one she would live in with Alexander – no short trek, as he lived on the more fashionable Caelian Hill – Emeliana tried to awaken herself to the reality of her situation. Alexander had gone ahead, as was customary, so he could welcome her to his house. Their house. She would live there from this day on. Within an hour’s time, she would be undressed in Alexander’s bed, and expected to become a wife in full. Emeliana had never feared sex; once she’d seen how handsome Alexander was, she’d been looking forward to learning all about it. But now what she wanted was to be alone, to sit somewhere quiet, away from the singers and the torchbearers and Alexander and everyone else. Her temples throbbed from the endless crying she’d done over the past few weeks, and the thought of a near-stranger touching her, actually being inside her, made her feel like she wanted to scream.

Too late now.

The procession reached their house – small but elegant, and theirs alone, not to be shared with his parents. That ought to have gladdened her; so, too, should Alexander’s friendly smile as he saw her. Instead Emeliana had to force herself to smile in return.

Before she knew it, she was in her bedroom, her aunt helping her out of her wedding clothes. “Now, you know what to do next, don’t you, Emeliana? Pretend you’re very nervous, even though you aren’t. He’ll know you’re only acting, but that lets him comfort you and call you ‘wife,’ and you’ll be surprised how nice it makes you feel. Gets things off to a good start.”

“I know what to do,” she answered. By now she was naked except for the elaborate knotted belt at her waist; Alexander would untie that.

“Under the sheet with you, then.”

Emeliana covered herself as her aunt bustled out. Then she lay still – finally alone in relative silence, despite the muted sounds of the wedding party outside – and took a deep, grateful breath.

Her life was starting over. Good. She could be … someone else now. Someone less careless. Someone smarter. Someone who used her Marks as Juno and Minerva must have intended.

The thought of Charelius would always hurt her, but she was powerless to help him now. Best to think ahead as to how she might someday be able to help another.

Or was she just forgetting him, putting aside the terrible memory of what she’d done?

Outside, the din from the wedding party grew far louder. No doubt someone had just made a ribald joke about Alexander’s next task. Well, let them make their dirty jokes. Weddings were the day for it.

The noise only increased. Alexander did not appear.

And on the edges of her consciousness, where her mind and her Mark overlapped, Emeliana felt the stirrings of both excitement and terror.

She jumped up, wrapping the sheet around her as she hurried to the door. “What’s happening? What’s going on?”

Alexander opened the door, and he startled at the sight of her nearly naked. “Emeliana – forgive me – I must go, this moment.”

“ _Go_?”

“Domitian has been assassinated.”

The Emperor, dead. Emeliana had held him in contempt, but the news still sent a shudder through her. She remembered what her father had said about chaos. “Who did it?”

“Too early to say, but no doubt many had a hand in it. No one remained loyal to him.” Alexander looked more satisfied than shaken. “And Sebastianus is due to arrive in Rome tonight – any moment. All his friends must come together to see that he is given the throne. Rome’s future is being decided, and I need to be a part of it.”

Emeliana was terrified – better, surely, to remain indoors until the fray had settled – but she could feel the determination radiating from her new husband. And if the new Emperor were Marked, then things might change for all the Marked, everywhere. Maybe even for a slave in the mines. “Go, then. Be safe.”

“You may be called for later. All the Marked may be. Prepare as best you can.” He nodded and turned, then paused just long enough to say, “I’m sorry about today. But we are married already, you know. The rest can come later.”

“The rest,” Emeliana repeated as he ran away.

 

 

3.

 

Only at the end of his first day in the wagon did Charelius realize that nobody had told his procurer that he was Marked.

He tried to explain to the man once they’d stopped for the evening, as he and the other slaves were chained lower for the night, but the only response was laughter. “First that girl of his tries to tell me you’re a scribe to jack up the price, and now you’re pretending you have the gods’ favor? If you did, you wouldn’t be headed to the mines, would you?”

“I swear to you by Minerva who has Marked me,” Charelius said. He would have said it even if it weren’t true. Anything but the mines …

“Shut up and sleep while you can. I don’t need my merchandise dying of exhaustion on me.” With that, Charelius and his fellow slaves were locked in to rest as well as they could.

Weary though he was, Charelius could not sleep. He lay on the floor of the wagon, now shackled at both wrists and ankles, between Germans who alternately snored and sobbed. Charelius thought of Erich, wondered where he was, and tried to figure out how long it would take him to die.

The next day, his head ached, and at first he thought it was from the merciless sun overhead. Even in autumn, the sun could burn those who had no clothes, no shade. Only in the afternoon did Charelius realize the truth.

_I haven’t had any amissiona in more than a day._

That night, as the nausea began, he tried again to convince his new owner. Once more, the response was laughter. “That stuff isn’t cheap, you know. Besides, if you were really Marked, you wouldn’t want it! You’d want to be strong enough to get away.”

Charelius couldn’t reply; he was too busy fighting not to vomit.

He knew his powers were stronger without the _amissiona_ ; he recalled that much from his adolescence. However, he felt too horrible to even think about testing his Mark. His mind was so clouded by nausea and chills that he hardly knew his own thoughts, much less anyone else’s.

By halfway through the night, the German slaves had pulled as far away from him in the wagon as their chains allowed. Charelius trembled violently. His skin was clammy and pale, and he could no longer resist the vomiting. As there was nothing to clean it up with, nor any way for him to move freely, he simply had to lie there in his own sick.

In the morning, his new owner began to think better of the bargain. “You got plague? I don’t need you giving plague to the rest of the merchandise.”

“I – I told you – the _amissiona_ – ” By now Charelius didn’t care about his Mark. He didn’t care about getting stronger. He only wanted to stop feeling like this. If someone would bring him a pitcher full of it, he would gulp it down without hesitation.

“Where am I supposed to get that, out here?”

Charelius had no answer for him.

They kept going, another endless day. Charelius remained chained to the floor of the wagon, which was now thick with vomit and excrement, because he lacked the strength to stand. He wondered if he would die before he even reached the minds; when he was coherent enough to really think about it, he hoped he would.

That night, however, he felt hands prodding at him, rolling him out of the disgusting muck. Around him he could hear voices.

_“That’s not much money.”_

_“For a slave who’s likely to die before the night’s out? You’re lucky I’m giving you even a single denarius.”_

_“But if he’s Marked, like he says – ”_

_“It won’t matter if he’s dead, will it?”_

Charelius didn’t hear his final asking price. He was lifted out of the wagon by strong arms, and then the world seemed to swirl and change around him. When he was laid on something sort of soft, he immediately fell into the stupor that had to count as sleep.

He wasn’t aware of much after that for many hours – days? – no way of knowing. His bones ached. His stomach and bowels rebelled, wringing him out time and time again. His skull felt as though it might split in two. At moments Charelius could not sit still, writhing and twitching with the last of his minimal strength; at others, he could not have moved had anyone set him on fire. Chills racked him until he wondered if the slave procurer had taken him to Germania or Gaul, someplace with thick drifts of snow.

When he dreamed, he dreamed of Erich – of running after him in the crowded streets of Rome but never, ever being able to catch up –

Finally, Charelius opened his eyes, then realized he had done so. Although he still felt wretched, his mind was ordered again, for which he was profoundly grateful.

The light was dim enough in this small room that it had to be dusk or dawn, probably the latter to judge by the silence. He lay on a bed, a real one, however humble. On the wall nearest him, someone had scratched a few crude drawings, and he tried to trace one with a shaky finger – but he remained weak.

“They were Christian symbols.”

Charelius managed to turn his head to see a woman perhaps a decade his senior, sitting next to him. She was nicely dressed – though somewhat exotically, with dark, silky robes and thick kohl around her eyes. From the east, then. He wanted to speak to her but could not think what to say.

“Do you know who the Christians were?” she continued as she dabbed at his sweaty forehead with a cloth. “I admit, I don’t really understand them myself. They were Jews, but somehow not Jews – they didn’t practice Judaism, at any rate. That fish was a symbol of theirs, and the cross too. Their messiah was crucified, apparently. Doesn’t sound like much of a messiah to me if he couldn’t even save himself.”

“What – ?” His voice cracked, but he managed to continue. “What happened to them?”

“The sect’s more or less vanished in the last decade. They thought there was only one god, you see, and when the gods started Marking people right and left, that pretty much showed them the error of their ways. Now, speaking of the Marked, that buffoon who sold you claimed you were one. True or false?”

“I’m Marked by Minerva. I can hear thoughts.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Can you? Then tell me my name.”

Charelius still felt too feeble to do much of anything, but he brought what strength he had to bear on looking at her, concentrating – and then he realized he could hear it sharply, clearly, more than ever before. “Lilandra. Your name is Lilandra.”

Her smile widened in genuine surprise. “Well! Turns out I got a bargain.”

“Where are we?”

“Croton. I took rooms at this inn for the week, waiting for my ship to Gades. Came here to buy one promising new member for my troupe, and now it appears I have two. Though the gods only know what we’ll do with you.”

Lilandra’s tone was so wry that Charelius couldn’t help but smile. “What sort of troupe?”

“Entertainers. I own dancers, singers, harpists, orators, acrobats, even a juggler or two. Don’t suppose you juggle.”

Charelius shook his head. “I’m trained as a scribe.”

“Hmm. That means you can read and write, which is always useful. We’ll figure something out.” Lilandra brought a cup to his lips, and he gulped the water down gratefully.

Charelius was thirsty – but not so thirsty that he had done without water for terribly long. Someone had made sure to feed him and give him something to drink during his recovery, then. He wore a clean tunic, too, and had been washed of the filth from the slave wagon. Lilandra would have bought him with no knowledge of his skills, and probably very little expectation that he would survive; that meant she had spent money only to keep a wretched slave from dying horribly in the wagon. He found himself deeply moved by her kindness.

Lilandra continued, “It’s another four days before our ship departs. You probably still won’t feel like traveling, but you’ll have to. So rest while you can. We’ll see if you can’t keep some broth down in a bit. And don’t worry about the _amissiona_ ; I own a few Marked slaves and I never bother with the stuff. What’s the point in having people with special abilities if you don’t make full use of them? Besides, it’s let go of you now. You won’t need _amissiona_ from now on.”

“Thank you, domina.”

She simply patted his hand and went out, dark robes fluttering around her.

Charelius liked Lilandra and suspected the slaves in her possession counted themselves lucky. However, he had no intention of remaining hers if he could help it.

When he grew stronger, so would his Mark. Even under the sway of the _amissiona_ , he thought he’d been able to nudge Lucius Emelianus toward letting him spend the summer in Rome. Now that he was rid of it, he should be able to convince Lilandra to free him before he was taken all the way to Hispania.

He would be manumitted. Allowed to go on his way. Then he could return to Rome, and to Erich.

Never before had he even dared to dream of freeing himself. But the potential had come close enough for him to reach.

Charelius slept more than he was awake for the next day, and although the terrible racking pain had eased, he remained almost too weak to stand. Lilandra nursed him so conscientiously that he almost felt bad about his plan to influence her mind. Yet even as he smiled at her and drank the broth she brought, he could only think of Erich, and how good it would be to see him again.

 _I hope Junia didn’t hear my thoughts that day,_ he mused as he tentatively walked across the room the next morning _. Better if Erich’s only wondering where in the world I am, and taking too many baths._ Charelius smiled at the thought of Erich scrubbing himself furiously in the frigidarium, trying to tamp down his frustrated desire. Maybe, when he returned to Rome, he would just slip into the baths beside Erich as though nothing had changed.

He improved rapidly that day, and by nightfall was able to come down for dinner. At first Charelius thought he would have to search for Lilandra’s other new slave – but his identity was obvious.

Only one person at the inn was blue, and had a tail.

“There you are,” said the blue one, his tail twitching in a friendly way … and Charelius thought he would have known it was friendly even without his Mark, which told him good humor and optimism shone from this one as if he were a lantern. “I have not seen you since the night Lilandra bought you, and then I thought, this poor man may not last the night. But you’re stronger than you look, aren’t you?”

“I have a feeling that makes two of us.” Though this man was slight and slender, Charelius now realized who had lifted him from the slave wagon. “I’m Charelius.”

“I’m Curio. Or so they call me in Roman lands.” His accent, Charelius realized, was German; he hadn’t recognized it at first, because Curio’s Latin was better than that of any other German he’d known. “And I am the finest acrobat you have ever met or will ever meet.”

Charelius laughed out loud as a bowl of thin soup was put before him. “Anyone else would be bragging, but you mean it, don’t you?”

Curio’s eyes sparkled impishly. “I’ve learned tricks no one else can match.”

With a BAMF, Curio suddenly turned into blue smoke and vanished; before Charelius could do more than startle, Curio had reappeared across the room, where he was able to snatch a tankard of ale. One more BAMF, and Curio coalesced back in his seat – ale in his hands.

“That’s amazing!” Charelius wanted to applaud. Their fellow travelers in the inn all stared. “Marked by Mercury?”

“So the Romans say. But surely I was Marked by Meili – one of my own gods, from home.” Curio’s tail drooped a bit. “I was captured in childhood, you see, before I had the power to get away. They kept me because they thought it amusing, a blue child with a tail, and trained me to do tricks. Then, with the _amissiona_ , I could not learn my true ability. Only after Lilandra bought me did I discover this. I have told her to save her money on the sea voyage – perhaps I can take us there in the blink of an eye! But she says she’d rather I practiced more first, before trying to carry us across the ocean.”

Charelius leaned closer. “Why do you stay? No one could keep you now.”

Curio sighed. “Where do I go? The Romans burned the village where I lived; everyone I knew before is a slave or dead. I must earn a living somehow, and I enjoy my acrobatics. Lilandra seems a kind mistress. Why leave a good situation only for poverty?”

“I think you’re well off with Lilandra,” Charelius agreed.

“We both are, my new friend.”

 Of course – he had to pretend to accept his continuing servitude for a while yet. Charelius nodded and tried to eat his meal. The ale was probably a bad idea, so he took only a few sips of that, but by now he could manage soup and discovered he was starving.

If he were to convince Lilandra to free him, he would need to strengthen his abilities. How did his Mark work now? It had been so long since he’d been free of the _amissiona,_ and his talent had been very new to him then. Charelius realized he would have to practice.

He glanced around the room where the other fellow-travelers were working their way through soup and bread. Some merchants – two soldiers – a weary family, complete with three children: That gave him a variety of thoughts to work out.

Charelius carefully slipped into the mind of one of the soldiers, and the thoughts came at him in a barrage – _They call them Marked but I think they’re cursed, what is that, turning into smoke, there’s no way the gods approve of it!_

He pulled back, stung by the man’s casual contempt for Curio. The soldier didn’t react; apparently Charelius’ touch had been light enough. So he tried again, this time seeking the mother of the family.

_I can’t be starting another baby already. I just can’t. The last one nearly killed me. I have to see a doctor about getting a pessary or something to stop it taking shape._

Again Charelius watched her face; again, she showed no sign that she’d sensed Charelius’ touching her thoughts. Encouraged, he reached out to one of the merchants.

_That’s the last time I bet on a gladiator. Everyone said Magnus was favored by the gods! Unbeatable! And he went down fast as anything. How am I to pay my rent now?_

At the heart of these thoughts was an image … of Erich on his back in the bloody sand of the arena, defeated, a sword at his throat.

The cup slipped from Charelius’ hand. Ale splashed across the table, and he felt as though he might be sick.

_Erich is dead._

“You are not yet well,” Curio said. He braced Charelius’ shoulder, and then – BAMF – they were back in Charelius’ room. Curio lowered him carefully onto the bed. “They dosed you more heavily with _amissiona_ than they did me; no wonder you’re still feeling it. It’s all right to cry if you feel bad. Don’t be ashamed. There, now. Cry it out until you sleep. You’ll be well again soon, you’ll see.”  

 

4.

 

Lucan’s favorite thing about theludus was the same as his least favorite thing: Taking care of the animals brought in for Colosseum bouts.

His Mark of Diana made him kin to beasts in ways beyond his claws and sharp sense of smell. Animals did not fear Lucan. Instead they seemed to recognize him almost as one of their own. Years ago the trainers had learned that it was best to send Lucan in to feed the beasts, and sometimes he would sit with them for hours, hand in a lion’s mane or along an elephant’s side, talking with them about anything and nothing, and they would soothe, and settle. Lucan had the power to make the animals less afraid for a while, content despite their cages.

That only made it harder to see them loosed in the arena.

Sometimes they were sent in to kill hapless prisoners, which did the beasts no harm and generally represented the best meal they ever got in captivity. In the process, people died horribly, and yet Lucan found this easier to watch than anything else that happened there. The animals acted out of hunger, not cruelty, and the deaths they offered were swifter than most in the Colosseum. Were he able to die, Lucan thought, he would happily have accepted that fate before other Roman tortures.

But sometimes the animals were set against each other, in vicious, unnatural combat that would never have taken place in the wild. Sometimes archers or gladiators were sent to slaughter them in slow, cruel ways. Their uncomprehending cries of pain cut Lucan to the bone, wounds that didn’t heal as swiftly as his flesh.

On that night in September, the trainers didn’t even remember the animals. Domitian had fallen; Sebastianus was even now summoning the Senate and the Praetorian Guard to proclaim him as emperor. Anyone with any sense stayed inside – there would be unrest in the street, possibly even rioting and looting – but normal chores and tasks were largely forgotten.

Lucan went and fed the animals, as always. Afterward he remained in the caged area for a while after feeding time. The present occupants were leopards, who paced their tiny cages as best they could. Lucan could almost feel their restlessness, their yearning to run free.

 _I know how you feel,_ he thought, running his hand along a leopard’s side.

A rustling at the doorway, and then Marina appeared. Lucan looked up and saw her – so thin, and so fragile, but with abundant dark hair, crowned with a lock of pure silver. Full lips, and eyes that lit up at the very sight of him …

His heart leaped to see her. Lucan could not deny it. That only meant he had let himself be a fool.

“Lucan?” Marina walked forward tentatively. Sometimes she came with him to feed the animals, but she could never be totally at ease around them. “There you are.“

“Did the trainer send you down here to look for me?” he said, his voice hard.

She paused, catching his mood but not understanding it. “No. I just – I wondered what you were doing.”

“What do you think I’d be doing down here? Playing dice with the leopards? I’m feeding them. Obviously.”

After a moment, Marina tried to smile. “What’s got you in such a bad mood? You can’t be upset about Domitian being dead. I know I’m not.”

“Listen. From now on, I’m going back to sleep with the other guys. Keep the room, however long you last here. But I’m done playing nursemaid.”

Marina’s face fell, and she looked so wounded, so bereft, that Lucan knew he was being a complete ass. But he’d been a bigger ass to let her get attached in the first place. He was doing her a favor; she’d see that, eventually.

Besides – now that Domitian was dead, who knew what was coming next? Everybody else might celebrate, but Lucan knew better. Change wasn’t always for the better. This was the worst time for him to get weighed down, or to weigh Marina down in turn. When things became dangerous, you had to get light. Get fast. You couldn’t look back.

“I’m not a child,” she finally said. “And I do as much for you as you do for me.”

“Now neither of us has to do anything for each other.”

“You think you’re being so hard. So tough. But really you’re afraid.” Marina stepped closer to him, blind to the pacing leopards in their cages around her.  The urgency in her voice sent a shiver through Lucan that he could not wholly ignore. “You think if you let yourself admit I matter to you –”

“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you? Convinced you’re the center of my whole world. Well, you’re not, kid.”

“I’m not a kid. I’m a woman. Most girls my age are married already.”

He ignored this. “I know you’ve had a crush. Should’ve put a stop to it before now, but it was flattering. But now it’s getting ridiculous. So I’m moving out. Keep the lamp.”

For a moment she stood there, stricken, her lower lip trembling, and it hurt just to look at her. But then Marina straightened and said, “I’m keeping the blanket, too.” Then she walked out, spine straight and proud.

Lucan grinned around his cigar, admiring her nearly as much as he loathed himself. It had taken guts to stand up to him like that, especially since he knew she felt crushed. But better to act like a shit now and get it over with. If he and Marina had kept it up, things would have gotten … messy.

Messier.

He would have stayed with the leopards the rest of the night – was even wondering whether he might not rather move down there, make himself a pallet between the cages – until, after a few hours, the door swung open again. Lucan looked up, expecting to see Marina come back to argue, but instead it was the trainer, white-faced.

Lucan stood. “What?”

“All the Marked are summoned.”

“To the training ring?” By now it had to be the dead of night.

The trainer shook his head. “To the Domus Augustus.”

The home of the emperor.

 

**

 

They had to wait their turn. Marked nobles went first, of course, and then everyday folk, then freedmen. Slaves would go last. For hours Lucan stood with the others on the steps outside the imperial palace, watching the others come and go.

At a great distance he saw the fair-haired girl who had come to tell Erich about Charelius’ sale to the mines. She wore her wedding clothes and was shown in before almost anyone else. He heard Erich make a low sound – nearly a growl – and Lucan understood how he felt. Little Miss High and Mighty got to go on with her happy life, while they sat in chains, and somewhere, Charelius was being treated worse than you’d treat a dog.

He and Marina stood as far as possible from one another, on opposite ends of their gathering of Marked slaves from the ludus. Erich remained next to Lucan, nearly as silent as stone. In the days since Charelius had been taken away, Erich had not shaved and had hardly washed; he looked like more of a wild man than he had been when he’d been dragged in the first day. There had been no talking to him, no rousing him to anything other than the basic tasks of survival. Now, however, Erich’s gaze seemed sharper, and after a while Lucan tried, “What do you think happens now?”

“There are only two possibilities,” Erich said. “Either Sebastianus will honor the Marks of the gods and change everything, or he is just another Roman, and will change nothing.”

Seemed to Lucan like there was a lot of middle ground Erich wasn’t thinking about, but they’d see what they would see.

And if a Marked man could become Emperor, no telling what came next.

Since the day he had so briefly fought back, Lucan had felt different inside. Not hopeful – he didn’t know what hope was any longer – but not as dragged-down as he’d been before. Yet angrier. Like maybe … maybe there was more he could do. No, there was no chance he’d ever have any kind of a decent life again, but maybe he could make sure the Romans were sorry they’d ever taken him out of Gaul.

That meant he couldn’t just sleepwalk through life any longer. He had to assess his situation from scratch. Figure out exactly how this emperor was going to change things. Talk with Erich about whatever he was planning (and by now Lucan was pretty sure Erich was planning _something_ ).

All this meant, in turn, that he could afford personal entanglements less than ever.

Only once did Lucan allow himself to glance over at Marina and see how she was doing. The night was cold, and by then they’d been standing for hours; Marina had no exceptional strength, and was probably exhausted. But Marina wasn’t looking at him – was determinedly _not_ looking at him – and Lucan reminded himself that she wasn’t his responsibility any more.

No. She never had been. Why was it so hard to remember that?

It was well into the middle of the night before Marked slaves had their turn. They walked past rows of torches, through an imperial palace that buzzed with nervous activity. Scribes and slaves bustled about, obviously scared out of their wits, trying to see to the countless soldiers who had arrived with Sebastianus. Some of the Praetorian Guards had been drinking, and their movements were too free, their swagger edged with the potential for violence. Although no sign of Domitian’s murder could be seen, Lucan could smell distant blood.

They were shown into the throne room in groups of twos or threes. Lucan, Marina and Erich were the very last to be pushed through the door.

The room was enormous – narrow but long, with columns that stretched up to an impossibly high ceiling. Deep green marble formed the pillars, and most of the tiles of the floor; every edge seemed to have been gilded, so that the gold shone dully by torchlight. In the throne at the very end of the room sat Sebastianus.

As yet Sebastianus did not wear the imperial purple; he still had on as much armor as was allowed within the sacred center of the city. Despite all the talk about his Herculean strength, Sebastianus was not an especially large man … his dark hair was shot through with a few strands of gray, and his face was thin without being weak. The new emperor didn’t even look up as they walked toward him; he was reading through dispatches brought to him by a young officer –

With a start, Lucan realized he recognized the officer. That red glass hanging around his neck: It had to be the same guy from the Circus Maximus, the one who had stood up for Marina. Lucan glanced over at her, but Marina’s face remained cautious and still. She never looked back toward Lucan.

Another officer, one with a black beard, came to offer more dispatches, but Sebastianus waved him aside and finally looked up with a slave traders’ stare – appraising and hard. “Now what do we have here?”

The trainer from the ludus said, “The last of my slaves – the three most powerful Marked slaves I own. Lucan, Marked by Apollo and Diana. Erichthonius, Marked by Vulcan – we fight him under the name Magnus. And Marina, Marked by Pluto.”

“This one – ” Sebastianus’ finger gestured lazily toward Lucan. “He’s the one who’s proved so hard to kill? I have no need of him. Men who are hard to kill can’t be truly afraid. That means they cannot be ruled.”

“Didn’t intend to be ruled by you in any case,” Lucan said.

Sebastianus raised an eyebrow, but he continued speaking only to the trainer. “Take him on tour with you to the outer provinces. To the east, perhaps. Find out exactly what it will take to kill him. Challenge the crowds to invent new sport to make of this one. Do whatever it takes to finish Lucan for once and for all.”

Marina made a small sound in the back of her throat. Lucan tried to tell himself it would be a relief to finally have his wretched life over with, but he couldn’t believe it.

“But this one – the one Marked by Vulcan, Erichthonius? This one I can use.” Sebastianus rose from his throne and walked forward. Erich, apparently, was worth speaking to directly. “They say you lost your last bout, but I dare say you might improve, sufficiently motivated. A man like you could make a very good soldier. Even an invincible one. But … I have no use for invincibility in a man who will not be loyal to me and to Rome. Swear your loyalty, Erichthonius, on the god that Marked you. And then you will be free.”

 _At least Erich was going to get out of this_ , Lucan thought. It seemed right that at least one of them would escape the ludus, and slavery.

Erich lifted his head – more alert, more belligerent than he’d been in weeks – and said, “I don’t swear my loyalty to dogs.”

Sebastianus’ dark eyes gleamed. He sat very still, unnaturally calm. “Are you immortal too? Surely no man who can die would speak so.”

“You don’t have to be immortal not to fear death,” Erich said. “You only need have no use for life. And I have no need for a life spent serving you. You’re the same as any other Roman – no, worse, because you’re Marked. You should see that all the Marked are different. That we’re better than these Roman animals. But instead you want to keep us all in chains.”

Sebastianus rose from his throne and stepped forward. “I know the value of the Marked more than a low brute like you ever could. The gods who sent the Marked meant them for one purpose only – to work the will of the gods, and it is the will of the gods that Rome should be strong, and should rule forever. To fail to serve Rome is to show your contempt for the very gods that Marked you.”

Erich grinned, an expression as feral as any of Lucan’s beasts. “It’s not the gods I hold in contempt. It’s you.”

“This is insolence,” said the proud young soldier with the medallion. “Sebastianus means only to use our talents for what is right and good. Those who would use their Marks of the gods to support our armies, our people – they will be honored above all others. Only those who misuse their Marks will be punished.”

“Listen to Alexander,” Sebastian said. “Listen to your betters.”

Erich paused – then spat in Sebastianus’ face.  

Lucan thought, _wish I’d done that._

The guards lunged forward, but Sebastianus raised a hand to halt them in place. To Erich he said, in a low croon, “You’d like to hit me, wouldn’t you? Then I give permission. Strike me, Erichthonius. As hard as you can.”

They’d execute Erich for sure if he did it – but Lucan realized Erich didn’t give a damn.

Erich slammed his fist into Sebastianus’ gut. Though the emperor doubled, he threw off the effect almost instantly, righting himself with a smile – and then he flung out his hand.

The blow was unlike anything else Lucan had ever felt. A wave of power slammed into him, Erich and Marina, sending them all sprawling backward nearly half the length of the long room. Sebastianus’ laughter echoed against the marble.

“Hercules did more than make me strong,” Sebastianus said as he walked closer to where they lay on the floor. “He let me take the strength of any blow levied against me, so I can return it tenfold.”

“Not one of your smarter gods,” Lucan shot back.

But he didn’t merit a response. Sebastianus’ glare was only on Erich, who glowered up at him with no regret. “Trainer? Take this one on tour with you. Send him into the ring day after day, until he dies. Then send me his head in a jar.”

“Yes, my emperor.”

Sebastianus half-turned, apparently done with them, but not quite. “Oh, the girl? The one who kills with a touch. She belongs to me now. Roveca, take her.”

The black-bearded soldier grabbed Marina’s arm (careful to only touch the part covered by her tunic) and hauled her up. Marina finally turned to Lucan, stricken, but before he could even process what was happening, much less say anything to her, the soldier had whisked her away.

Lucan had no idea what would become of Marina, but he knew he would never see her again. His cruel words to her earlier that night had been the last they’d ever share.

 

5.

 

Marina hurried after the soldier – Roveca – trying to keep her composure. This was her new situation, as an imperial slave, and if she wanted to survive, she had to make the best of it.

_But Lucan – they’re going hurt him over and over to try and kill him, but they can’t. I feel sure they can’t. Apollo loves him that much. Why would they hurt anyone so beloved of the gods?_

But there was no time to grieve for Lucan. No time to do anything but learn how to serve Sebastianus.

“He’ll want you for an assassin,” Roveca said. His voice was surprisingly light for such a brawny man.

“An assassin?”

Roveca seemed amused. “Sebastianus has a magnificent assassin at his disposal already – that would be me. But there are always more people to kill.”

They were deep in the palace now, where more signs of disorder were visible. A bust of Domitian had been shattered on the tiles of the hallway where they walked, paint chipped so that his eye was now blank and white. From the shadowy hallways they walked past, Marina could hear distant weeping and cries of panic. One of the praetorians hurried by them, only to be stopped by a younger officer. “Sir, you said to kill the consul’s family – ”

“So why is it not done?”

“His daughter’s 13. Not married yet. The law forbids executing a virgin.”

“Then see to it she’s not a virgin before you finish her off.”

The officer paused, then nodded and went away to his grisly task. Marina’s gut turned as she thought of that girl’s fate – and then, so swiftly she almost missed it, similar disgust flickered in Roveca’s eyes.

Marina dared to ask him, “Is this the kind of man Sebastianus really is?”

Roveca’s expression shifted into something far harder. “It’s the kind of man most men really are. You can only hope to serve a strong one, like we do.”

Then Roveca’s expression shifted again – but no. Not his expression. His face.

As Marina stared, Roveca’s burly build became shorter, slender, _feminine_. His armor melted away into an array of blue scales that covered the entire body like a snakeskin; the helmet became a sleek cap of brilliant red hair. His … her golden eyes glinted strangely in the torchlight.

“Marked by Janus,” Roveca said. “Sebastianus saw my true worth. He was the first one who truly saw me since I lost my family long ago. He bought me from a fate that was killing me, and he made something of my life. I know he’s a cruel man, but he’s a strong one, and now my status rises with his.”

Marina didn’t understand. For people like them, status only rose in one way. “Are you not his slave? Did he free you?”

When Roveca did not reply, Marina finally caught on. Sebastianus saw the Marked as ornaments and weapons of the Empire – and now as head of state, there was no difference between him and Rome itself. To serve him was to serve Rome, and they would be made to serve.

Finally Roveca said, very quietly, “Go along with Sebastianus and you can have a good life. Go against him, and – well, I don’t go against him. You shouldn’t either.”

Not knowing how to answer, Marina simply nodded. Her heart ached for Lucan, but even her sorrow couldn’t blot out the panic rising inside her at the thought of being kept so close to a capricious, cruel man who now happened to rule most of the known world.

She’d felt safer in the room of leopards.

 

6.

 

The sea stretched out before them in brilliant shades of aquamarine, sunlight glinting off the waves. Although the ocean air was cool, Charelius had been given a cloak to ward off the chill, and he found he enjoyed the view. Looking out at the boundless sea and sky – it reminded him of playing in the tall grasses with his sister as a child, or of lying in the dark with Erich. It reminded him of feeling free.

This was as close to free as he would be for a while to come, and Charelius had decided that was all right with him.

 _I deserve a few more years of slavery,_ he thought. _It was my love that killed Erich. If he hadn’t loved me, cared for me, then he could never have been defeated in the arena. Let me serve a sentence for that._

Though the true sentence was having to go on without Erich.

“How can you be so steady?” Curio moaned from his place at the ship’s railing, where he’d already been sick at least three times. His tail dragged limply on the deck.

“It looks as though Charelius has his sea legs.” Lilandra petted Curio’s back. “You’ll get yours too, never fear. Takes some people a day or two.”

“Two days?” Curio groaned.

Charelius caught the genuine misery within Curio and reached out with wordless reassurance. Although Curio remained hunched at the edge of the ship, his spirit brightened. He tried to convince Curio that the ship was totally stable, not moving upon the waves at all – but apparently his Mark didn’t allow him to overcome the motion of the sea.

Well. It didn’t yet. He’d work on it.

For now Charelius would remain with Lilandra. She was thoughtful and humane, and the employ she offered was no harsher than any he would find on his own. Besides, she owned an entire troupe of Marked slaves – more people like him – and Charelius found himself curious as to what it would be like to be surrounded by his own kind. They would be in an environment where they were encouraged to learn more about their gifts. What might they be able to teach each other? What kind of alliance might they yet form?

When he felt prepared to be a free man, Charelius decided, he would either use his Mark to win it or purchase it fairly from his new owner. Until then he could save his money, bide his time and nurse his broken heart.

He didn’t expect to ever be the same man he’d been before Erich’s death. But someday Charelius would live in freedom – both for his own sake and for Erich’s.

Lilandra smiled at Charelius, her dark robes billowing in the breeze.  “Better to be farther from Rome, during times of turmoil.”

The word of Domitian’s murder had reached Croton the night before. Had Sebastianus taken over, or the popular general Trajan? Rumors swirled, confusing the issue more by the hour. If either of them changed things for the Marked, Charelius assumed it would affect him in Gades as well as anywhere else. “I agree, domina.”

“Have you ever been to Hispania before?”

“No, domina. This journey is entirely new, for me.”

“Will you miss Rome very much?”

His breath caught in his throat as he remembered walking with Erich through the streets – bathing by his side, steam wreathing around them as he washed Erich’s hair – and one first, perfect kiss, to the sound of rain.

“I will miss it forever, domina,” Charelius said, his voice almost even. “But it’s best that I’m moving on. There’s nothing left for me in there.”

Lilandra’s dark eyes sought his, and perhaps she saw more than he’d meant to let on. But she simply touched him once on the arm before turning her attention back to poor Curio.

Charelius looked westward, toward the prow of the ship, his hair ruffling in the sea breeze. For now the sun was behind them, but soon they would be chasing it toward the western horizon, toward nightfall and his new home.

 

**

 

Erich peered through the thin opening that had to suffice for a window in the hold of the ship. The morning sun directly ahead stung his eyes, because they were headed due east, but it was easier to bear than the darkness that would follow in the hours to come.

“You’re from the east, aren’t you?” Lucan said. He sat on the floor of the ship’s hold, like most of the other gladiators being hauled away for their tour of foreign cities – the one designed to kill them.

“I’m from Judaea. Spent most of my life in Syria.”

“So what’s it like?”

“It’s a good place to die.”

“Figures.”

They wore only loincloths now, packed as they were into the dank space below decks, with hardly any room to sit, much less lie down to sleep. None of the gladiators here expected to see Rome ever again. They would be made to row when there was no wind for the sails, made to starve on scanty rations until they reached their destination, and then pitted against one another in fights to the death, over and over, until there only a few remained.

Erich intended to be one of them.

No, he would never serve Emperor Sebastianus. But slaves had helped kill emperors before. There were ways. Other throats awaited Erich’s knife – Lucius Emelianus chief among them – but he had decided not to stop until his revenge was complete.

Some would laugh at a naked, filthy slave in a ship’s hold, plotting the fall of the most powerful man in the world.

But they were the same ones who underestimated what it meant to be Marked.

“At least Marina’s not here,” Lucan said quietly. “I don’t know if she could take this.”

Erich made no reply. He had no pity, now, for anyone who had thrown away love out of fear.

Where was Charelius now? Still being dragged across rough muddy roads, chains cutting into his wrists? In the mines, sweating and groaning from backbreaking labor? Being whipped because he had failed to haul out enough iron or silver for the Romans today?

 _Don’t think about it now. If you think about Charelius in the mines every moment of every day, it will kill you._ Erich needed to stay alive, to get revenge for them both.

Not even in his most glorious dreams of vengeance did Erich think he could topple the Empire in time to save Charelius. His love was lost forever.

All that remained to him was hate. Someday his hatred would shake the world entire.

 

END PART ONE


	6. All Roads Lead Back To Rome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with illustration by the wondrous and magnificent LooLooBee! I am SO IN LOVE with her artwork for this - I think you will agree! 
> 
> ROMAN NAMES: 
> 
> Charles = Charelius  
> Erik = Erich  
> Emma = Emeliana  
> Logan = Lucan  
> Marie/Rogue = Marina  
> Jean = Junia  
> Alexander = same  
> Sebastian = Sebastianus  
> Scott = Scota  
> Hank/Beast = Bestius  
> Kitty/Shadowcat = Catula  
> Raven = Roveca  
> Kurt/Nightcrawler = Curio  
> Armando = Armin  
> Lilandra = same  
> Angel = Aquilina  
> Bobby/Iceman = Iuventius  
> Ororo/Storm = Aura  
> Azazel = Avitus  
> Janos = Januarius

1.

 

_Eighteen months later – February 98 A.D._

_Gades, Hispania (modern Cadiz, Spain)_

 

“How are none of you ready?” Lilandra threw her hands in the air, as if outdone with them all. “You’re gadding about! Gossiping! But not getting ready! I swear, I’m selling the lot of you to the countryside.”

Nobody paid any attention to this, for a number of reasons. Lilandra never sold her slaves; either she freed them or kept them with her even through old age and infirmity. Also, they weren’t even supposed to be ready yet, but their mistress tended to get nervous long before a big event – and there had never been an event for the troupe bigger than this. Nearly all of them were performing tonight, and for the most impressive audience they were ever likely to have.

Charelius already wore the Greek robes that most orators affected, so he was as ready as he was going to get. He sat in the large hall in the center of Lilandra’s house where all the performers prepared for their performances, cross-legged in front of the Mauritanian dancer Aquilina, his tongue at the corner of his mouth as he applied kohl around her eyes. “Hang on. Almost got it.”

“You’re becoming pretty good at this,” Aquilina said, her Mark of Mercury – glittering wings – trembling slightly with nervousness. “Been practicing with our mistress?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Then Charelius realized what she’d really been asking and playfully swatted at her knee. “Practicing helping with her _makeup_. That’s all.”

“If you say so,” Aquilina sing-songed.

It was true that Charelius had become Lilandra’s favorite. Although at first she had been no more than a kindly owner and mentor in his new career, some months ago she had begun to pay him compliments, touch his shoulder occasionally when they spoke, and to make a point of telling him goodnight. When Charelius had recognized the nature of her interest, he had at first been horrified, thinking that for all her many kindnesses, for all his Mark told him of her good heart, Lilandra would turn out to be like any other owner. Like Lucius Emelianus. Soon he would be summoned to her bed and made to do whatever she asked. 

But that summons never came. Lilandra’s attentions waned without quite ceasing. Charelius finally realized that her behavior had not been the precursor to an order, merely … an offer. She was flirting with him as she would with a free man, and he was at liberty to accept or decline her offer as he wished, with no hard feelings on her part.

Lately Charelius had begun to consider accepting. Lilandra possessed a sharp mind and lively wit, and he enjoyed her company. Though she was his elder by some years, her beauty remained undiminished. After such long abstinence, it would be good to have sex again – and interesting to finally have sex with a woman, to play the active part in bed for the first time in his life.

No, he wasn’t in love with Lilandra. Charelius didn’t expect to ever love another person as he had loved Erich. But he could perhaps have companionship, at least, and the gentle satisfaction of making someone else happy.

He remembered how incredible it had felt, just seeing Erich’s smile, so crooked and new, because he had never been given reason to smile before –

“Are you all right?” Aquilina said.

“—Yes. I’m fine. Sorry. Just drifted off for a moment.” Charelius put his hand to her chin, turning her face to inspect his handiwork. “You look dazzling as always,” he said, and she smiled, but crookedly.

“Nervous?” said Curio, who had either wandered up or appeared next to them, as impish as ever. “Don’t be. Who is more marvelous a dancer than you, Aquilina? Or a better orator than our Charelius?”

“Or better acrobats than us?” asked Curio’s partner in the acrobatic act, a Numidian named Armin. “We’re each the best in all of Hispania, and I bet we’d be the best in Rome, too.”

That was probably true, at least as far Curio and Armin went. Although Armin lacked Curio’s outlandish appearance or ability to travel instantly, his Mark of Diana allowed him to take on different forms, often of various animals, so that he could stretch, bend or even slither into seemingly impossible postures. Hard to imagine they wouldn’t wow an audience anywhere, and Charelius had begun wondering whether Lilandra would take them all to tour Rome soon. If they did well tonight, their reputation would be made, and such a journey would become likely.

In Rome, word had it, the situation for the Marked had changed dramatically – though Charelius was uncertain whether it was for the better or for the worse. Those who pledged their Marks to the Emperor Sebastianus were favored by him, whether noble, freeborn citizen or slave. They said he had claimed for his own many slaves with Marks he thought particularly useful. Yet they were still bound to serve – just to serve him. Overall Charelius was glad that the full dimensions of his Mark of Minerva weren’t known outside the troupe; he, like the others, would be seen as a diverting novelty, no more.

 _Are you ready to return to Rome?_ It would be hard to walk the same roads he had walked with Erich, to look at the Pantheon, the Colosseum, and especially the Baths of Nero. But Charelius knew he would have to prepare himself, if he intended to remain with Lilandra’s troupe, and he did. Although he still planned to be free someday, for now he liked the camaraderie, the interesting work, and most importantly, the protection. Free Marked citizens were suspect now, unless they presented themselves to the emperor; slaves only had to obey their owners. Lilandra’s house was a place of safety for all who lived there – a place where they could flourish, practice their gifts and be free of interference and prejudice.

And they _had_ practiced together, for hours on end. Aquilina had also been Marked by Vesta, and could breathe fire over thirty paces. Armin could swim like a fish in the sea, remaining underwater for hours at a time. Curio had been able to travel to the distant mountains and back again – a journey that ought to have taken many days – so quickly that the snow he’d brought back in his hands had not melted. As for Charelius, his ability to shape and influence minds had grown beyond his wildest imaginings. Their little group of the Marked could be formidable, he thought – not only because of what they could do, but because of their trust in one another.

 _Surely_ , he thought, _that is how we must begin._ Charelius was still determining what, precisely, the Marked should begin to do – but already he knew the emperor should not be the only one to determine their fates.

Finally the time came and Lilandra began to bustle them all out the door. She took a moment with each one, reviewing the plans for the evening, finally coming to Charelius. “You’re certain you’ve got your pieces memorized?”

“I’ve had them memorized for months!” he laughed. He could hardly have helped it. Orators were the busiest entertainers of them all, as even small dinner parties usually featured a recitation of some sort. By now Charelius not only knew thousands of lines of poetry, but where to pause, how to modulate his voice for maximum effect, and also – his special touch – when to enhance his listeners’ moods with his Mark of Minerva.

Lilandra remained fretful. “You know what you’ll offer?”

“The Herculean portions of the _Aeneid_ , which the guest of honor ought to find flattering.” Charelius knew those best of all; they were the sections he’d written out by hand while daydreaming about Erich and the nights they got to spend together that one beautiful summer. “But I also have the best parts of Statius’ _Achilleid_ down pat if they request it, or the Cornelius Severus if they’re feeling daring enough for _Death of Cicero_ , satire by Florus if they aren’t, or – if the mood’s turned racy – they’ll get Ovid.”

“Good, good. I should have known you’d have the right idea. You usually do.”

Charelius mock-whispered, “Now don’t worry.” As he went through the door, on impulse he took her hand, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed her knuckles.

Lilandra’s eyes lit up, but she immediately got back to business. “Right, everyone, let’s go. Just a short walk, and then you’ll be giving the performance of your lives for the emperor himself!”

 

 

2.

 

CIRTA, NUMIDIA

 

They claimed Multi was unbeatable in the games. How could he not be? His Mark of Janus allowed him to split into multiple versions of himself, filling the arena with a dozen or more fighters, all in his image, all obeying his will. No man could ever hope to defeat such a warrior.

But Multi had never before faced any gladiator as fearsome as Magnus.

Erich swung his shield around, deflecting the blows against his shield coming from each direction. By now he faced at least a dozen copies of Multi – but only one had a sword.

They switched the sword between themselves when they thought he wasn’t looking, but the metal sang to Erich, told him where it was at all times. He realized that Multi wanted to trick him into going after one of the duplicates in such a way that he would leave himself open, when the original Multi – the true man – would strike from behind. Erich had no intention of being so easily caught out.

Yet how could he defeat twelve men in the arena, especially when all twelve shared one mind?

The blows raining against his shield were stones, mostly. Occasionally a fist, if Erich let one get close enough. That was his cue to chop off an arm or a leg, which won howls of approval from the crowd even as hot blood sprayed against Erich’s skin. But no sooner did one fake version of Multi fall than he was absorbed back into the original, and a new,fresh version appeared from another direction to take his place. And sometime the blow against his shield was real – the sword, the one that could kill him.

 

 _Twelve of them_ , Erich thought. _I have to strike fast, more quickly than Multi can compensate by creating another._

Doing this meant giving away just how powerful he had become. Erich had weaned himself down to a smaller dose of _amissiona_ ; the trainers weren’t clever enough to realize that he took a couple of swallows less than most of his comrades. When the barracks in their arenas allowed for some privacy, or in the dead of night while others slept, he practiced working with metal, testing himself constantly. By now he could pry open a lock at twenty yards, or lift a heavy wagon by the bolts alone.

To reveal his powers now – worse than useless. Erich swore to himself as he took another blow against his shield, backing away through the sand, hopefully convincing Multi he was weakening.

But the only alternative to revealing his powers was allowing himself to be killed, and Erich had no intention of dying like this.

He would die when he had avenged himself, and Charelius, upon all of Rome. Not one moment before.

Erich lowered his shield just enough to check – still twelve – then raised his sword in what would have looked like a high, desperate blow. Yet as his hand went higher, Erich split the sword within his grip; what had been one blade became twelve, their points sharper than any whetstone could ever make them. At a flash they flew in twelve directions at once – slamming into each version of Multi simultaneously.

The crowds screamed. A few of the duplicates vanished immediately; others fell to the ground and became … less than human, still material but obviously fake. Only one still stood: the real Multi. Erich’s blade jutted from his belly, promising a long, slow death.

Instead Erich summoned the other eleven points back to his hand and fused them together into a sword again, one slightly lighter and shorter than before. He walked quickly to Multi, who had fallen upon his knees in the ground. As Erich pulled his hand back, their eyes met – and for a moment they were just two men, both of them Marked, neither of them free, knowing their fates were ultimately the same.

Then Erich slashed his sword forward, beheading Multi instantly.

Over the roar of the crowd, Erich shouted, “Seventy-eight!”

Seventy-eight men dead by his hand: By now Erich was perhaps the most successful gladiator who had ever fought. Most of those who heard his shout would have thought he was gloating. He wasn’t.

Instead he was counting, waiting for the day he faced Sebastianus again. He planned to slice through the emperor’s flesh once for every one of the Marked he’d been forced to kill for the amusement of their inferiors. Then and only then, once Sebastianus had been taken to a place of total suffering, would Erich kill him.

Hopefully the number would rise higher yet.

 

**

 

“Kill or be killed,” Erich said that night over his dinner, the usual thin stew in an earthenware bowl, served along a long plank set as a shelf on one wall of the local _ludus._ “That’s the rule. I kill, therefore I win. You used to praise me for winning.”

“That was when you were supposed to live! You were supposed to die a year and a half ago!” The trainer was beside himself with anxiety. One of Erich’s few amusements was seeing just how frightened the man could get; every time he thought the trainer could become no more panicked, he went further. By now he was a wreck.

“I’m sure the emperor will understand you tried to obey his order,” Erich said evenly.

The trainer paled. By now, even those without Marks knew Sebastianus was no better than Domitian – perhaps even worse. If the trainer didn’t manage to finish Erich off before his tour of the provinces ended, he might wind up in the arena himself before long. Erich grinned as he considered the prospect.

“You think it’s funny, do you? Well, don’t think I didn’t notice that stunt today. You haven’t been drinking the full dose, have you? You’ll drink it tonight if we have to put a funnel down your throat.” The trainer glared at him before stalking off, no doubt to fetch the _amissiona._

Erich showed no reaction and planned to drink the full dose tonight without complaint. The less resistance he showed, the sooner the trainer would become lazy, and then Erich could start taking less again.

For a year and a half now they’d traveled throughout the western and southern reaches of the Empire. Erich had fought in Antioch, in Seleucia, in Carthage. He had been to Jerusalem, the city lost to his people, feeling that he reclaimed it in some small measure just by walking the streets. He had been to Alexandria, and seen some of the marvels of Egypt. By now he had visited a good portion of the known world; under other circumstances, he might have considered it a privilege.

Instead, he had known it to be an opportunity.

By now Erich had made contact with smaller groups of the Marked throughout the Empire. They usually came to the matches to silently show solidarity, which meant Erich often had a chance afterward to talk with them. During his free time after matches – when he was allowed the liberty of the streets, though this did not always happen – he gathered meetings together in secret. He had found he was far from the only one angry that Sebastianus wanted to use the Marked only to increase his own power – and far from the only one seeking revenge.

Sebastianus scooped up the Marked as though they were his toys, wherever he went. But even the most well-traveled emperor could not visit every corner of the Empire. Erich very nearly had. Every place he had gone, he had urged the Marked to find one another in neighboring towns and provinces, to build a secret network about which the Romans would know nothing until far too late. Not all of them listened, he knew, and even those who listened didn’t all follow through – but some did. Enough. Already, in most cities, Marked people in the stands would raise their left hands to him, which was becoming the salute of their brotherhood.

 _When the time comes_ , Erich thought as he used a bit of stale bread to sop up the last of the stew, _we will not even have to tell the other Marked to rise. When the rebellion begins, they will hear. They will know. And they will fight._

He drank his _amissiona_ , took a second cupful of it and walked to the small cell where he would be locked in for the night, and handed the cup to his roommate. “Here.”

“Sure do miss my cigars,” Lucan said.

To any casual observer, Lucan looked precisely the same as he had when Erich met him two years earlier. Apparently his body’s imperviousness to injury and alteration extended even to aging; Erich’s skin had grown yet more weathered after months under the harsh southern sun, while Lucan remained almost without lines.

But Erich could see the years in Lucan’s eyes. The anger that had briefly revived him had been all but extinguished after he had been separated from Marina. She had been the light within him.

Over and over again, men had tried to kill Lucan. Over and over, they had failed. In Memphis, with Lucan’s blessing, Erich had tried to finish him in the ring, using his powers to sharpen his blade to such a fine edge that he was able to slice clean through Lucan’s torso, bifurcating him. The crowd had cheered when the two halves of Lucan’s body fell bloodily into the sand – but they’d gone nearly mad when the halves crawled back toward each other, fused into one and left Lucan still alive, apparently none the worse for wear.

By now, Lucan wanted nothing but death, but that was beyond Erich’s power to give him. Beyond anyone’s, perhaps.

He wondered sometimes how different Lucan would be if Marina had remained with them, if he’d still had someone to care for and protect – but that reminded Erich of other what-ifs, ones he found harder to bear.

The trainer locked them all into their cells. Only when the lock clicked and Erich lay down in the dark did he allow himself to think of Charelius.

(This was the custom he’d developed, the way he’d taught himself to bear it. By day he didn’t allow himself to think of anything other than revenge; when Charelius came into his mind, he thought of him only as bone-thin and ragged in a mine, a shell of his former self, the ruin the Romans had made of him. By day Erich refused to feel anything besides anger. Only at night did he remember what he had lost.)

As he lay under his coarse blanket in the dark, Erich imagined Charelius lying next to him as he had before. Sometimes he imagined he could hear the rise and fall of Charelius’ breath, the warmth of his body nearby. He closed his eyes, and it was as though he could see Charelius there, smiling up at him softly.

_I cut a man’s head off today. It’s a horrible thing to see, a worse thing to do._

Charelius’ hand would have stroked across his brow, along his shoulder, soothing him.

_I wish they’d never been able to make me a killer. I wish I could’ve remained the man I was with you._

Charelius would have slid one arm around him, bringing them closer. He used to do that just as he began to feel he would fall asleep, as though he were trying to make sure Erich didn’t slip away in the night.

_I love you always. I love you still. You are the only one I ever belonged to. The only joy I’ve ever known._

Erich opened his eyes. He lay alone in the dark, and his cot was hard and cold. As he had nearly every night for the past eighteen months, he prayed that Charelius was dead.

If he had died quickly upon reaching the mines, perhaps from one of the illnesses that sometimes swept through the camps, then Charelius would not have had to suffer as long. He would have fallen to a fever, lost in delirium by the final hours, perhaps even believing himself back in Erich’s arms. That was as merciful an end as the mines offered. Better that than to still be alive, by now a skeletal wreck of himself, ravaged by pain and deprivation and hardly able to even remember when they had been happy.

_Please be dead, my love. I sacrifice for it every time I can. Please be dead._

He closed his eyes. Charelius would have rested his head against Erich’s shoulder, so they could fall asleep.

 

3.

 

Anyone would have said no young woman in all Rome had more reason to be happy than Emeliana, wife of Gaius Sempronius Alexander.

Anyone except Emeliana herself.

Sometimes, late at night, she reminded herself of her many blessings. Two gods had Marked her, Minerva and Juno. She was beautiful. She was wealthy. No children yet, but her husband had not been much in Rome, so there was no need to worry at this point. Alexander was a favored protégé of Emperor Sebastianus himself, and rising quickly in the army; furthermore he was handsome, considerate and apparently faithful. Often she dined at the Domus Augustus, because the emperor favored her in an impersonal sort of way – as he had done since the first night of his reign, when Emeliana had hurriedly put her wedding clothes back on to be presented to him at twilight, almost before he’d washed Domitian’s blood from his hands.

(Metaphorically, of course. Others had done the work of killing Domitian on their own initiative … so the official story went. Alexander seemed to believe that story completely, though Emeliana silently thought he might be the only one in the Empire who did.)

So why wasn’t she happy?

Her marriage, for one. Alexander still treated her with the same remote politeness as he had before their wedding. He was away with the army most of the time, and when he came home, he seemed to want only a few dinner parties with friends, and sex with her at the appropriate time, in the appropriate postures, before going back to his own bed. They were – business partners, in a sense, the co-founders of their house and the next generation of his illustrious line, and Alexander had no need of more than that from a wife.

Most Roman men didn’t. Emeliana had to remind herself of that often. If you wanted love, you took a lover; if you wanted affection and companionship, that was what friends and siblings were for.  Patrician Roman women were, by and large, even less sentimental about marriage than the men were, and Emeliana had believed she was sensible too. Yet she found herself wishing for more.

Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad without her Mark of Minerva, strong enough now to tell her how minimal Alexander’s interest in her really was. She could feel it most strongly when they touched each other, as they only did in bed.

She had not yet taken a lover; only a fool would do that before producing her first child, preferably one who strongly resembled her husband. As for friends – most of her society companions were only interested in gossip or shopping, topics that had become much less fascinating to her as she grew up.

But Emeliana had other friends, too.

The first time she had gone to the House of the Vestals, Emeliana had walked there early. Her conscience would not let her stand before them pretending she’d had nothing to do with Charelius’ terrible fate.

But the Vestal Junia had been kind. “My Mark shows me that you meant to do him a kindness. If you had known the truth, you would never have spoken.”

“I should have known the truth,” Emeliana had insisted. “I should have strengthened my Mark instead of being – lazy, and vain.”

“Strengthen it now. Perhaps someday you can save another in Charelius’ name.”

So Emeliana found herself on a cold winter day, wrapped in a woolen cloak, hurrying to sit outside with the only real friends she had.

“I’m so glad he’s gone,” whispered Marina, who huddled there in her black silk; those robes weren’t nearly warm enough for the bitter weather, but Sebastianus had given orders that she wear those and nothing else – and by now everyone had learned the price of disobeying even his most insignificant orders. “Every morning I wake up, and I remember I won’t see the emperor, and I’m so happy – until I remember that he’ll be back by spring.”

Bestius patted her shoulder with one of his broad blue hands. His fur meant he was the only one of them who looked comfortable in the cold. “They aren’t making you perform executions while he’s gone?”

Marina shook her head. “Sebastianus likes to make me tell him – tell him everything that’s inside their heads while they’re dying. The way they suffer, the people they miss … he drinks it like ale. Sometimes I lie to him, tell him they’re angry or they’re quiet or something else, but he knows, and it’s terrible when he knows, and I –“

Her voice choked off, and Emeliana dared a comforting pat of her own. Marina glared at her – she had never been as forgiving as Junia – but her anger was less sharp than usual.

“What about Roveca?” asked Catula, who had half-embedded herself in the stone steps for shelter from the wind. “Have you talked more with her, like you said you would?”

Marina shook her head. “Every time I think, this is it, she’s not going to make excuses for Sebastianus any longer – she says or does something that convinces me she’s completely loyal to him still.”

“Some are,” said Aura, a tall, white-haired Egyptian woman who had recently joined their group. “But far more are simply too frightened to consider any other path.”

By now, Sebastianus had drawn enormous numbers of the Marked into his orbit. Most were like Marina: either owned by him or under his personal command, compelled to do his bidding. In his name they were made to do terrible things, bringing the Empire even more completely under Sebastianus’ control … and teaching others to fear and hate the Marked.

At first Emeliana had thought Sebastianus was mad to alienate people so, but she had learned his method. If anyone with a powerful Mark was suspect, then they were cut off from other sources of friendship and support. They had to rely on Sebastianus, or – what?

That was what their group hoped to learn … that, and other things.

“Were you able to talk to your father in law?” Junia said quietly.

Emeliana nodded. “The _amissiona_ crop in Sicily failed completely. They were able to harvest it, but the herbs grown there don’t have the same effect on the Marked at all.”

“So it still only grows in the valley of the Rubicon,” Marina whispered.

“They’ve tried it everywhere. Africa, Lusitania, Dacia – it doesn’t matter. The plant doesn’t want to grow anywhere else.” There were precedents for such a thing, which Emeliana knew as well as any other Roman. For generations, Romans had relied on silphium, a tasty plant that had the added benefit of preventing any woman who regularly consumed it from having a baby. How carefree people must have been in those days! But silphium would never grow outside its one little corner of Libya, and the demand for it was so great that soon they had used it up. The very last silphium plant had been presented to the Emperor Nero, who immediately ate it.

Now it looked as though the same extinction awaited _amissiona._

“There are vast storehouses,” Junia murmured, her arms folded upon her knees; the cold wind made her veil ripple behind her. “Many years’ worth of crops. But even that is finite.”

 _So the day of controlling Marked slaves will someday end._ Everyone thought it; no one said it.

Emeliana knew they had to be cautious, even here and now. So far their little meeting had been allowed to continue. They met publicly, in the Forum, so no one could claim they conspired in secret; Junia’s presence gave them irreproachable sanctity. No one would dare to question one of the Vestal Virgins.

 _Except an emperor_ , Emeliana thought, remembering the hardness of Sebastianus’ smile across the couch at a dinner party. _How long will he let us go on this way? How much longer will he tolerate any group of the Marked that isn’t his to control? What will he do if he finds out we’re aware that he can’t use amissiona to control the Marked forever?_

She found herself like Marina, dreading the spring.

 

**

 

When Emeliana arrived home, she discovered she was not alone. “Alexander?” she pushed back her hood, astonished. Her husband stood there, the metal and leather of his armor mostly concealed by the cloak he still wore. “You weren’t expected until tomorrow at the earliest! I would have been here to welcome you home.”

“No matter,” Alexander said. His kiss ghosted against her cheek. “We made better time than I’d anticipated.”

“But – you should have sent a messenger ahead – ”

“Don’t worry your head about it. I know you’d have prepared a feast for us, but I didn’t want to put you to any trouble.”

Emeliana wanted to be put to trouble. She wanted her husband to think she would be glad to see him, to hope for her waiting to rush into his arms. And yet Alexander still did not see it, and never would. Quietly, politely, she said, “I would wish to meet your brother.”

“Out in the peristyle, as though he hadn’t had enough cold on the trip home,” Alexander chuckled. “Scota! Come in here and present yourself to the lady of the house!”

He shouted at him as though they were both still boys. Emeliana straightened herself as best she could and tried to find that endearing rather than annoying.

As their guest came in, cloak still swirling around his armor, Alexander said, “Emeliana, this is my beloved brother. Scota, this is my wife.”

“Forgive me for meeting you only now; I hated to miss the wedding. And I see I have a very fortunate brother.” Scota stepped closer. He wore red glass just as Alexander always did, but his was in front of his eyes, part of the helmet he wore even indoors. He was just as tall as Alexander, and even more handsome, so far as Emeliana could tell with the helmet on.

“You have a very fortunate sister too,” Emeliana replied, smiling up at Alexander and attempting to feel the emotion rather than mimic it. “For I am your sister now, and honored to finally know you.”

“Is the Emperor back from his Western voyage yet?” Alexander was so eager. _Gladder to see Sebastianus than he’s ever been to see me_ , Emeliana thought sourly.

She kept her reply sweet. “Not yet. By spring, certainly, but probably within a few weeks.”

“We needn’t have hurried,” Alexander said – to Scota, not to her. “You were right.”

“If the Emperor had wanted us awaiting his arrival, he would have sent word,” Scota said. And though his tone was even, his words measured, Emeliana could sense the feeling behind Scota’s remark. He did not admire Sebastianus as Alexander did.

“Well, might as well spend the day resting, then. Not like we haven’t had a time of it.” Alexander’s grin was slightly weary. No wonder, as they had managed to come home from Germany on horseback in some of the worst weather of the year.

“I’ll summon the slaves,” Emeliana said. “They can see to your things while you two take a nap.”

“They ought to have been helping us already,” Alexander said – more amused than angry, but with an undercurrent of genuine impatience.

Emeliana took his cloak herself. “This is when I usually give them time to rest and see to their own concerns.” 

 “See how she spoils our slaves, Scota?” Alexander laughed. “Imagine how soft she’s going to be on your future nephews and nieces.”

“Any child would be glad of a kind mother.” Scota’s voice was soft. “As I’m sure your slaves are glad of a kind mistress.”

Emeliana almost laughed. Alexander missed the expression, but Scota didn’t.

As she led him back toward the guest bedroom, Scota said quietly, “What was so amusing?”

She didn’t decide to tell the truth. It just spilled out. “I’m not kind. I can be awful, really. But I don’t have any use for lies. Pretending slaves aren’t people – it’s a lie, like any other. That’s all.”

“Honesty is a harsher virtue, but a stronger one. A rarer one, these days.”

Emeliana glanced up at Scota then, and their gazes met through the red glass of his helmet. At once she knew that he feared Sebastianus as much as she did, and despaired of Alexander’s devotion to him. They had more in common besides that, she thought; it was as though they might be able to see the world the same.

It would have been all right if it had been her Mark telling her so. But that wasn’t how Emeliana knew they were so alike.

She just _knew._

He did too. The knowledge rippled through them both like a shiver, and they stepped away from each other at the same instant.

“I’m tired,” Scota said quickly. “I apologize. We’ll see each other over dinner.”

“Rest well.”

Emeliana hurried away, heart thumping fast inside her chest. She still wasn’t sure how to understand what had just happened, but she knew that – whatever it was – it was what she had longed for with Alexander but never had, a moment of total understanding as bright as a flash of lightning.

She had found it with Scota in only an instant.

 

 

4.

 

 

Within moments of walking into the imperial banquet, Charelius knew that the Emperor Sebastianus was even more dangerous than they had feared.

The emperor sat at the center couch, robed in imperial purple, the sheen of silk outlining more of his body than was usually visible in Roman garb – powerful shoulders despite a slim frame. Although his features were not arresting (sharp nose, narrow jaw), they nonetheless had an eerily perfect Roman symmetry. His dark hair was shot through with the first touches of silver, but something in Sebastianus’ gaze seemed impossibly old and jaded. His smile never reached his eyes.

Sebastianus was surrounded by the minor officials who had accompanied him on the trip, as well as two of his leading generals – both Marked, as he was. Januarius looked like any other man, save for wearing his straight dark hair unfashionably long; however, all now knew of his Mark of Neptune, which allowed him to wreak havoc upon Rome’s enemies at sea. He had swamped an entire pirate fleet off the coast of Dalmatia last year, with a wave of his own summoning. Avitus’ Mark of Mercury was more obvious; he had the same pointed features and tail as Curio, but instead of blue, he was a deep, ruddy color, like fresh clay. Also like Curio, Avitus could appear and disappear where he would, which made him fearsome on the battlefield.

Incredibly powerful, both of them – and yet their Marks were used only to serve Sebastianus. Charelius could sense the mixture of hero-worship and fear in them both; beneath all that, ravening ambition, the hope that each might be the one to adopted as a son and succeed Sebastianus someday. No friendship, no trust –

 _This is what Sebastianus wants,_ Charelius realized _,_ as he saw the emperor enjoying, and subtly encouraging, the competition between his two most senior generals. _He wants us to have no bonds between each other; he wants us to interact only through him._

Charelius was among the first entertainers; people usually wanted the poetry while they were still sober enough to follow it, with more raucous acts to come. He did not attempt to challenge Sebastianus with a political reading that would inspire debate, nor to flatter him, as his ego was healthy enough. He went for the Florus, funny and popular and completely safe. As Charelius got to the witty stories, he would reach out with his Mark, setting the audience up for more surprise and therefore more mirth. By the end, laughter rang from every corner, and Charelius bowed to loud applause.

“Excellent,” Sebastianus said. “So many orators are skilled in every other respect, but have no touch for comedy.”

“Thank you, lord and god.”

This was not the traditional way to address the emperor. When Domitian had begun to insist upon it in the latter years of his reign, people had widely taken it as a sign he was going mad. Sebastianus had made everyone call him this from the beginning.

The emperor gestured to an attendant. “Give this man a seat, and present him with a token of our esteem.”

Probably this meant a small statue, maybe even – if Charelius was lucky –a few pieces of gold. It was not unheard of for an orator who had done well to be allowed a chair (never a couch) near the party, that he might be conversed with. Charelius doubted this group would want to talk much about poetry, but he was glad of the opportunity to observe Sebastianus more closely.

The food continued to be served; Charelius received none, but was given a cup of wine as the other acts took their turns. Slowly, subtly, as gently as he could manage it, Charelius began to peer within the emperor’s mind.

As Curio and Armin went through their act, Sebastianus’ thoughts formed a whisper Charelius could hear: _The one Marked by Diana – him I can’t use. Too indestructible. Too fearless. Hard to kill. But the blue one is Avitus all over again, only more tractable, I suspect. How better to keep Avitus in check than by showing him how easily he could be replaced? To turn them against each other in time … marvelous sport._

Charelius sat very still. To think of gentle Curio ever turning against anyone, or being pitted against a man as ruthless as Avitus – it was gruesome, and wrong. And how could somebody as talented as Armin be so easily dismissed? Did Sebastianus mean to separate them? Curio and Armin were the best of friends, and it would be worse than cruelty to make them part.

Too late, he realized why the emperor had traveled to a resort town out of season. Lilandra’s troupe was not a diversion for his journey; it was the whole point of his stay in Gades. Sebastianus had come here to pick and choose which of them he would take for his own.

Charelius squared his shoulders. He would have to use his Mark to convince Sebastianus otherwise.

As of yet he was still unpracticed in using his Mark to influence minds that profoundly. His work called on him to suggest and emphasize, no more; otherwise, the conditions of his life were pleasant enough that he had no need for controlling anyone. Charelius occasionally tried it for trivial matters, just as a test, but had never undertaken any suggestion as important as this would be. Now he absolutely had to succeed, to keep his friends together and preserve the safety Lilandra had given them.

 _Curio would be a risk,_ he thought in Sebastianus’ “voice.” _Two men with such talents might band together against me, rather than become rivals, and how would I defend against them?_

Sebastianus straightened on his couch, suddenly concerned. Charelius hid his smile behind a cup of wine.

The drinking continued, as did the entertainment. When Iuventius made his ice sculptures, spinning frozen water from his very form, Charelius projected, _That’s of no use. Armies need to be rid of ice, not to make more of it!_ The natural next thought was that Iuventius would be excellent at icing over the wagons and catapults of their enemies, but Charelius tried to conceal that as best he could.

Finally, when Aquilina came out to dance, Charelius felt he could relax slightly. Her gift of flight was not so unique that Sebastianus was likely to claim her based on that alone, and the act she performed tonight did not reveal her Mark of Vesta. Instead, as she danced lithe and limber in her scanty gown, the men’s minds traveled down predictable paths.

 _Look at her thighs_ , Sebastianus thought. _Muscled and slim. How would they feel against my palms?_

This was more or less the same thought Charelius overheard every time Aquilina danced. Other men had offered to pay extra for further services from Aquilina; thus far she had always refused, and Lilandra honored her choice. Would Aquilina make an exception for an emperor? Many would. If she did, Charelius resolved, he would find a way to quietly warn her against showing off more of her talents. 

 _We could all have her,_ Sebastianus daydreamed, his mind providing graphic images of watching Aquilina being taken by Avitus and then Januarius in turn, before claiming her himself. _One after another, all night long._

Charelius felt himself blushing, but nobody cared about his reaction.

The images suddenly changed from merely explicit to grotesque. Charelius’ mind filled with the red of blood as Sebastianus’ imagination raced ahead. _We fuck her until her body breaks. Until she begs for mercy. We crack her bones one by one until we can twist her into unnatural shapes, and she screams in exquisite pain, all while I’m inside her –_

Charelius projected himself within the emperor’s mind at full strength – at an intensity he had not known he possessed – with the one word, _NO._

Sebastianus turned his head and stared at Charelius.

Too late Charelius realized he’d gone too far, done too much. Now Sebastianus knew what he could really do.

Aquilina continued dancing; nobody else noticed that the emperor’s attention had changed. A slow smile spread across his face, and it took all of Charelius’ self-control not to shudder. He sensed that the worst thing he could do now would be to show fear.

“You, there,” Sebastianus said. The lutes and drums instantly fell silent; Aquilina stopped her dance mid-step and respectfully stepped out of view, safer now than she knew. “Orator. What is your name?”

“I am called Charelius, lord and god.”

“Charelius. What sort of a name is that?”

“It’s the butchery Romans made of my real name when they took me from Britannia, lord and god.”

“No longer hiding your spirit, I see.” Sebastianus took a draught of wine. “Or your true potential, either.”

“We were not Marked by the gods to hide, lord and god.”

“Yet you did not display your Mark when you performed for us.”

“You enjoyed the reading, did you not, lord and god?”

The emperor nodded, realizing the truth. “And here I thought you were actually so talented a speaker.”

This stung – Charelius performed to the best of his ability, and felt he would have measured up even without his Mark – but he said nothing. He could not show weakness in front of Sebastianus, but nor could he afford insolence.

“Which god Marked you?” Sebastianus said. “Minerva?”

“So I believe, lord and god.”

“Most Marked by Minerva can only overhear thoughts through touch, if even then. And I have never heard of anyone who could influence the minds of others. Yet I’ve spent the entire night believing that nobody here was of any use to me, which now seems to be a conclusion I wouldn’t draw on my own.”

He didn’t phrase it as a question, so Charelius did not reply.

“Cautious,” Sebastianus said. “Therefore intelligent, as well as Marked. Come here.”

The emperor motioned to his own couch, and Charelius could only obey.

How could he ever have described the rest of that long, strange night? Fear bordered Charelius’ mind – for himself and for his friends – preventing him from fully seeing or understanding everything around him. The rest of the evening’s festivities tapered off, but nobody could leave while the emperor remained seated. Music stilled. Conversation went silent. And Charelius remained Sebastianus’ only interest, his only prey.

At midnight, all others silent either on their couches or, in the case of the performers, now seated on the floor at the far edge of the room, and sweat pooling in Charelius’ elbows and knees: “What purpose does your Mark serve out here in the provineces, young Charelius?”

“I feel that I am to use my Mark to protect those around me who require protection, lord and god.” 

“Yet not in my service?”

“You are too powerful to require the protection of one so humble as I, lord and god.”

“Why should your Mark not be mine to command?”

“I obey your commands, lord and god.”

“Is that why you toy with your emperor’s mind in secret?” Sebastianus did not seem to expect an answer to this, which was a small mercy. “You believe that your Mark is yours to use, not mine.”

“The gods gave me this Mark, lord and god, just as they gave you yours, and I would never question the will of the gods.”

“Do you think to catch me in impiety?” Sebastianus chuckled, without mirth. “They’ll deify me when I die – which won’t be for a while, so don’t get your hopes up. I accept the title now, to make myself ready. After all, they might make me a god even during my lifetime. They did for Augustus, didn’t they?”

“They did, lord and god.” Charelius had been forced to recognize the truth of the Roman gods when he was Marked, but he had never put much stock in the imperial cults. Now he wondered whether there was validity to them as well, whether somebody Sebastianus would truly have divine power. Could the gods be so cruel?

He thought again of the terrible image that haunted all his dreams – Erich lying in the sand, bloody and beaten, dead. No, there was no limit to the cruelty of the gods.

Two hours after midnight, slaves creeping about trying to surreptitiously refill the oil lamps before they sputtered out, the noble guests propping their chins in their hands in an attempt to stay awake, Charelius’ muscles cramping in the effort to stay completely still: “Why do so many of the Marked defy me, Charelius?”

“I know of none such, lord and god.”

“There are Marked gladiators in the south who refuse to die for my amusement.”

The ache in Charelius’ heart almost kept him from replying in time, but he managed, “Few can resist the will to live, lord and god.”

“True. They lack courage, so the will must be mine.” Sebastianus reclined further back on his cushions. “I think I’ll order these gladiators back to Rome, see to them personally. Would you like to watch while I kill them?”

“I care little for the arena, lord and god.” _He means to take me back to Rome with him._ Charelius’ own horror almost deafened out the pain of that same realization from his comrades, and from Lilandra.

The emperor cocked his head. “Why is that? Can you feel their emotions as they die? Feel their agony?”

“Yes, lord and god.”

“Exquisite,” Sebastianus murmured. “People lie to me about that, sometimes. It’s the thing I’ve always wanted more than anything else, to know the thoughts of those I destroy. You have that truth, and you will give it to me.”

Then he stood – the movement so sudden, after hours on the couch, that everyone startled. “By my command,” Sebastianus said, “the lady Lilandra is now proscribed. All her possessions, including her slaves, belong to me, and there is a reward for he who puts her to death.”

“For what offense?” Lilandra cried, even as Avitus rose, his hand going to the knife at his belt.

“Hiding such treasures from your emperor,” Sebastianus said.

Charelius had hidden any sign of fear for his own sake, but to help Lilandra, he would do anything. He threw himself at the emperor’s feet so that he was prostrate on the floor. “I beg of you to spare her, lord and god.”

“And why would I do your bidding?” But Sebastianus was more amused than contemptuous; Charelius sensed he had a chance to persuade him. “None of your tricks. I’ll recognize them now.”

He thought fast. “Lilandra has always treated the Marked with respect, while there are still those who hold us in contempt. Should you give your worst punishment to one who acknowledges and honors your special prominence before the gods?”  

Sebastianus smiled crookedly. “If you’d been born a free man, you might have made a good lawyer.” With an airy gesture of his hand, he added, “Very well. She is not to be killed. Instead – find her an island. Large enough to sustain life, not large enough to amuse. Lilandra is banished.”

A grim fate – but while there was life, there was hope. Charelius managed to catch her eyes just once before the guards dragged her from the room. From her he felt fear, but also gratitude, and the hard determination that gave him faith she could endure.

Then she was gone, invisible to him, and the rest of them had fallen into the clutches of a new and terrible master.

Already their chance to fight was gone; they had given it up to spare their mistress’ life, all instinctively realizing that to resist at that moment would be to instantly condemn her to death. Curio at least might have gotten away, but he did not want to leave Armin, and within moments the _amissiona_ was being forced down his throat. The flask went from slave to slave, some drinking it in resignation, others struggling until Sebastianus himself used the immense power of his Mark to hold them in place. Only Charelius did not have to drink.

“I want you to feel their fear,” Sebastianus whispered into his ear as the slaves were dragged outside, two by two. “And their pain. If you try to use your tricks to run away, to free them or yourself, I’ll disembowel one of them right in front of you so that you feel the entire thing.”

“I will not leave you,” Charelius said, refusing to let his voice shake. “Lord and god.”

He was taken outside last, to the shop of the smith who had been awakened before dawn to do the emperor’s bidding. Once Charelius was on his knees, his tunic ripped at the shoulders and pulled down to his waist, a coarse metal band was wrapped around his throat, and the red-hot tongs of the blacksmith came so close he nearly cried out from the heat. The band was soldered shut, glowing so brightly he could see it through his shut eyelids, then dropped so that it seared his shoulder. Charelius’ hands were freed then, and he managed to lift it slightly to prevent a worse burn.

“There,” Sebastianus said as Charelius knelt in the dirt, shaking and near shock. “You belong to me from this day forward, for the rest of your life. Our fates are intertwined.”

Charelius could only nod. The words _lord and god_ would not come from his lips, not now.

But the emperor wasn’t listening. “We’re going to have fine times together in Rome. Wait and see.” 


	7. The Sight Of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ROMAN NAMES: 
> 
> Charles = Charelius  
> Erik = Erich/thonius or Magnus  
> Emma = Emeliana  
> Logan = Lucan  
> Marie/Rogue = Marina  
> Jean = Junia  
> Henry/Beast = Bestius  
> Alexander = Alexander, yay!  
> Kitty/Shadowcat = Catula  
> Scott = Scota  
> Sebastian = Sebastianus  
> Lilandra = Lilandra  
> Kurt/Nightcrawler = Curio  
> Raven = Roveca  
> Angel = Aquilina  
> Armando = Armin  
> Azazel = Avitus  
> Janos = Januarius  
> Bobby/Iceman = Iuventius  
> Ororo/Storm = Aura

1.

 

They were to return to Rome.

Well, shit.

Lucan had thought he was past caring what they did to him any longer – had thought his will to live already as dead and gone as his beloved panthers. But that was before this officious praetorian had shown up in Numidia, summoning them home.

“They sent us out here to die,” Erich said evenly.

The praetorian’s smile was tight and mirthless within his bristly black beard. “Now you’re coming home to die. Different story; same ending.”

“Not for me,” Lucan said.

“We’ll think of something to do for you. Word has it the emperor’s more creative these days. Found himself some new toys out west. Not content with the ones he already owns.”

More Marked, Lucan thought. More poor bastards like him and Erich, caught in the claws of the Romans.

Despite how incredibly fucked they were, Lucan noticed that Erich looked more than satisfied with this turn of events. Almost pleased. That night, as the gladiators began to settle in for sleep, Lucan muttered to him, “Don’t see what you’re so happy about.”

“I wanted my chance at the emperor,” Erich said. He lay on his back, hands behind his head, entirely at ease. For some reason he strongly disliked being spoken to once he’d rolled onto his side – some nightly ritual Lucan couldn’t guess at, since it didn’t seem to involve jacking off – but for now the man was as close to relaxed as he ever got. “My _real_ chance. In Rome, I’ll have it.”

“You think being dragged back for execution is a great tactical move. Sure. Fine.” Lucan burrowed his blanket further down into the thick layer of straw that served the gladiators here as a bed.

“There are others like us who are free,” Erich said. “And other slaves ready to rise. Sebastianus can’t control us all.”

“He’s the emperor. We’ve been all over the damned world by now – seen anyplace where his soldiers don’t walk the streets? Bought anything with a coin that didn’t have his face on it?”

Erich didn’t even respond to this, just kept smiling quietly, like there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to walk back into the Colosseum. “Sebastianus isn’t a god. Not yet, anyway.”

“If you kill him, you might make him one. Ever think of that?”

At last Erich hesitated, expression clouding as he took this in. Lucan couldn’t believe the guy hadn’t thought of this before, especially since there were temples to Augustus and Vespasian all over the Empire. If they’d walked past one temple to a deified emperor, they’d walked past a hundred. But finally Erich said, “One god among hundreds, and not one of the really powerful ones. The emperors don’t Mark people with their gifts, do they?”

Lucan shrugged. “Don’t see how you’d be able to tell, if they did.”

“Even if Sebastianus became a god, he’d be nothing compared to Vulcan, or Diana or Apollo. They’ll deal with him up there.”

“You never give up, do you?”

“You gave up before you began.”

It had been so long since Lucan allowed full vent to his anger that he’d almost forgotten how it felt – the rush of it in his veins, the way the hair on his arms rose and prickled, the way his claws seemed to itch to slash out of his hands and into somebody else’s throat. He rolled over, crouching as though he were about to pounce, and in a low growl said, “You take it back.”

“Why? Is your pride the only thing left worth fighting for?”

“I got no pride left, bub. But it’s worth fighting to shut you up. You honestly think you can change the whole world?”

“Or die trying,” Erich said. “What else do I have to live for? Nothing.”

Lucan forced back the rage. He knew by now that Erich couldn’t kill him, and killing Erich would do Sebastianus a favor. “Just shut your trap once in a while, all right?”

“You’re the one who brought up the subject,” Erich replied, so unruffled and so correct that Lucan found himself irritated even more. “There must be something you’d want. Something that could make staying alive worth it to you.”

“Going back to Gaul. To the Belgicae.” The words came to Lucan so quickly they startled him. He thought he’d surrendered the thought of that place forever, and yet now he could imagine himself there, surrounded by tall trees, the air blessedly cool. His nostrils flared as he remembered the scent of his prey – red deer and boars – and of the peat fires of home.

“You can’t be killed,” Erich said. His voice was quieter now. “So you’re the one who might actually get what you want, someday.”

 _Doubt it,_ Lucan thought but didn’t say. His mind had leaped ahead to another possibility for his future – one far more immediate, far more real. It was as though the mere memory of home had awakened hope in his heart, and the memory of happiness, and these in turn had reminded him of the only other person who had made him feel that way in a very long time.

In Rome, he might see Marina.

He wasn’t fool enough to believe she still thought of him. After the way he’d treated her the last time they spoke, Marina probably remembered him with more anger than pleasure. But Lucan thought it would be worth a few angry words – or even her cold refusal to acknowledge him – just to see how she was doing.

How had Sebastianus treated her? What did he make her do? Had she learned how to deal with the thoughts of all those people in her head? Had she ever found some Marked guy who could touch her, give her some of the love and life she deserved? Or was she still alone?

Lucan remembered her sitting alone on the bench in the yard of the ludus that first day, lonely and small. It had been worth it to go to her then, he’d told himself many times – worth the pain of losing her, just to have known her. He wished he’d understood that before he’d hurt her so stupidly.

Did Marina think he’d been worth her pain?

He doubted it.

 

 

2.

 

“Tell me – what is it like, to be raped?”

Late at night. The emperor’s tent. Charelius kneeling beside the camp cot where Sebastianus lounged, reading dispatches. Oil lamps flickering, and Charelius’ breath catching in his throat. This was what his nights were like now, one after the other, as though they were one long terrifying night that never ended. Charelius’ Mark of Minerva fascinated Sebastianus – and his fascination was a deadly thing, dipped in venom.

“Legally it is not rape when the master uses his slave, lord and god. Only when someone unlawfully uses the slave of another.” Even then, the crime was not against the slave, but against the owner. Property damage.  

“And yet I should imagine the experience of it is much the same. You’d know better than I. Is it?”

Sebastianus had wanted to hear Charelius’ history, and for the most part Charelius had complied. Whenever Sebastianus thought he was being lied to, he lashed out; already he had cut Aquilina’s wings almost in two to punish Charelius merely for hesitating before answering a question. For his own part he would have borne whatever torture Sebastianus had in store for him – but he could not allow others to be hurt if he had any chance to protect them.

(Mercifully, however, the worst question of all had been phrased in a way that allowed Charelius to dodge it easily. The emperor had said, “Did you never fall in love with a woman?” and Charelius had been able to say that he’d had sex before, but never felt love for a woman. Erich remained secret, his alone, unsullied by even the touch of Sebastianus’ evil mind.)

“It is the same, lord and god,” Charelius said.

“Then tell me how it feels.”

“Humiliating. Sometimes physically painful, but not always. You feel that you’re being treated as something less than human. Your _genius_ is irrelevant. Only your body matters.”

Sebastianus smiled as he considered it. “Why should a slave ever think otherwise?”

“Masters sometimes forget their slaves are human, but slaves cannot, lord and god.”

“All the more reason the Marked should swear themselves to me rather than live in slavery. But then, any slave could commit suicide rather than exist in his demeaned state. Therefore, they have all chosen slavery.”

Charelius loathed this line of thought – hardly uncommon among the Romans. But he said nothing to Sebastianus, just remained on his knees, though by now his legs and back were cramping.

Sebastianus kept Charelius close at all times, and had instructed all his guards that if he began to act strangely (say, for instance, ordering the release of the Marked slaves he had taken from Lilandra’s troupe), Charelius’ throat was to be immediately slashed. The gleam in his eyes as he said it made Charelius wonder whether the emperor might not pretend to be under Charelius’ mental influence just for the fun of watching him be murdered.

Certainly Charelius had no intention of acting against Sebastianus so crudely. This was more than an individual – this was the leader of the Empire, supported by soldiers, advisers and nobles that spanned the length of the world. It wouldn’t be enough to bend one mind with his Mark; no, he would have to be able to move against hundreds or even thousands of minds at once. Did he have that kind of power? Charelius wasn’t sure that he did.

No single man could ever bring down an Empire. But many men could.

His friends were miserable on this journey, mourning the loss of their carefree lives in Gades and worrying about Lilandra. But Charelius reached into their minds one by one in the evenings, whispering, _Remain strong. In Rome we’ll take stock of our new situation, and then we’ll figure out when and how to act._  And one by one, they answered – wordlessly, but with their courage and determination. Curio smiled when he caught sight of Charelius at morning meal, and once Aquilina had spread her injured wings just enough to show him that they were healing.

Once they were in Rome, then what? Charelius was certain of only one thing: Junia would still be there, still in service to the goddess, still so sacred that only an emperor could attack her and even then at the risk of his popularity or even his throne. If she had continued the meetings of the Marked, then that group would be even more close-knit than before … with members in every branch of Roman society.

Could they all be brought to work together? If so, then the power of their Marks would more than eclipse those of Sebastianus; they might be greater than that of the Empire itself. 

“What is the worst moment?” Sebastianus continued, stretching out on his cot. “Of a rape. Is it penetration? Being forced to take a male member in your mouth? Or the aftermath?”

Charelius knew his own answer to this, had known it for years. “Knowing that it is inevitable, but not knowing the exact moment. Always waiting, wondering. Fearing.”

“Then consider this,” the emperor said. “At some point in the future – a day from now, or a year, or at some point in-between, you will be raped again. Probably I won’t do it myself; men’s bodies hold no appeal for me. But I can find soldiers who’d see it as a reward for services rendered. Three or four, I suspect. I’ll let them have their fun with you while I watch. And the entire time, you’ll open your mind to me, so I can observe your degradation from the inside out.”

Was he serious? He was. Charelius could sense Sebastianus turning over the vision in his mind, already a fantasy.

 _I will not endure this. I_ will not. _Never._ The certainty was stronger in him than any fact he had ever known. Ye he said nothing.

“If you hold back at all, at any moment, I’ll send for more soldiers. So I wouldn’t fight it, if I were you.” Sebastianus brought his blanket up over his shoulder, preparing for his version of pleasant dreams. “So now you can wait, Charelius. Wait, and wonder, and never know the moment.”

He managed to reply evenly. “Yes, lord and god.”

“I have to control you, you see. Only through your mind can I truly hold the minds of others. So you must learn your place, and learn it well.”

“Yes, lord and god.” _But my place is not where you think it is. It is not at your feet._

By now Charelius had learned that he could not move from his position to sleep on the mats on the floor of the tent until after the emperor had fallen asleep. So he remained very still for long minutes afterward, remembering the many cruelties of past emperors he had read about in the histories he’d transcribed. Names like Caligula and Nero were watchwords for sexual cruelty and excess. Someday Sebastianus would be remembered among them.

But during the past several days, Charelius had begun to realize his Mark had dimensions far beyond what he had already discovered. He wanted to keep this to himself for now, until he had a better idea precisely what he could do, and understood when and how the emperor might be made vulnerable. The hour to strike would come, but not while he and his friends were guarded by dozens of praetorians, in Sebastianus’ armed camp.

He wanted to wait for the ideal moment … but he knew if Sebastianus tried to subject him to rape again, his self-control would break. His Mark of Minerva would defend him beyond any attack the emperor could attempt.

Still, if it happened at the wrong moment, Charelius might protect himself for a night, but endanger his friends and all the Marked forever after. He had to hope for time.

 _Remain strong,_ Charelius thought, not only to his fellow slaves but also to himself. _No matter what comes, we must remain strong._

 

3.

 

Once Emeliana had scorned to wear white, thinking people would say she looked like a Vestal. Now she owned clothes in no other color. Alexander didn’t mind; she didn’t think he’d noticed.

Scota noticed.

“You don’t have colorful silks, like most ladies,” he said that night as they prepared to depart for the dinner celebrating the emperor’s return to Rome. “Not so interested in vanity, then.”

“I’m tremendously vain.” This was an insight she’d gained during the past few years; it was one she’d always known. “So much so that I now ignore fashion and wear what I know looks best on me.”

Scota stood considering her for a long moment. He wore his formal dinner tunic, but looked more martial – more masculine, she thought – because of the helmet he always wore. His expression was unreadable through the red glass visor, but her Mark told her how avid his curiosity was.

His interest.

Finally he said, “You emphasize your worst qualities when you’re around me. Why?”

“Because I want to be understood.” Emeliana thought it was a flippant answer until the words came out, and she realized how much truth she’d given him. Flustered, she stepped past Scota, closer to her husband’s bedroom. “Alexander? If you aren’t ready soon, I’ll tell the emperor himself that you took longer with your hair than your wife did.”

“Don’t you dare!” Alexander came out, laughing. “Come. It’s been too long since we saw Sebastianus.”

The Domus Augustus was not the largest residence in Rome, nor the grandest – but anything grander than the home of the emperor was automatically flashy, tacky, a sign of new money. Certainly it was elegant enough for any sane person. The mosaics on the floor portrayed every legend and myth, from the labors of Hercules to Apollo and Daphne. More candles and lamps than the average noble could afford in a month burned all at once, filling the rooms with splendid light. Though Emeliana had come to dine here many times now, she never ceased to feel a small thrill of wonder: _Me, here, in the emperor’s house!_

Lately that thrill was edged with fear, as she understood better exactly who Emperor Sebastianus really was. But nothing took away the fundamental awe.

Back when she had been a young girl who cared for nothing but fashion, she would have said of the gathering guests, “anyone who’s anyone is here.” Now she was less impressed by the majority of them, Marked or not. Rather than carefully take notice of who wore what, she kept her attention on her husband, his brother, and their host.

“Alexander.” Sebastianus smiled, and his warmth seemed genuine as his hands clasped Alexander’s shoulders. “It’s been too long. And yet you wrote such excellent dispatches that I felt quite as though I were beside you in Germania.”

“You were, in the most important sense. Your words and your wisdom govern us, no matter where you travel.” Alexander looked up at Sebastianus with such unalloyed admiration that Emeliana’s first instinct was to stare in disbelief. However, she kept her expression carefully neutral as she used her Mark to try and comprehend Alexander’s emotions; there she found an almost depthless need for approval, a pride in Sebastianus’ strength … and recognized them as the feelings many boys had for their fathers.

Alexander had a father, of course, one whom he loved dearly. But Gaius Sempronius had been old even before his sons were born, probably turning fragile just at the age where they most wanted to tussle and play. _Sebastianus represents vitality_ , Emeliana speculated. _Someone powerful and active for Alexander to admire._

As Scota accepted his own welcome – more cautiously – Emeliana waited her turn for notice. Yet she realized there was a strange awareness pressing upon her Mark, a doubling of the sensation incredibly peculiar to her … a bit like looking into her reflection and then seeing it blink. What on earth could that be?

“And the lovely Emeliana,” Sebastianus said, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. “Always the brightest ornament of any gathering.”

Emeliana’s fake smile was more winning than most real ones. “Welcome home, lord and god. Did you have a pleasant time in Hispania?”

“Delightful. I even acquired a new personal slave.”

Her eyes followed his casual gesture, and then she was looking into Charelius’ eyes.

She couldn’t speak. Shame and horror cascaded over her, so strong she felt sure every person in the room could see it. Mercifully Sebastianus was too busy chatting with Alexander to take any further notice of her. Charelius said nothing; his expression remained blank, perhaps with shock as strong as her own. After a moment he inclined his head in a small polite bow – and then she and her husband were being ushered to their couches, a few feet away.

How could she possibly behave as though she were enjoying this party? Emeliana felt as though she could hardly swallow the minimal food she put in her mouth. Before them, two miraculous Marked acrobats were performing their tricks, but she could take no delight in them, especially since her own Mark showed her how frightened they were of the Emperor.

“Emeliana?” It was Scota who noticed her discomfiture, while Alexander continued easily talking to Sebastianus. “Are you unwell?”

“It’s warm in here. Warmer than I’m used to, in wintertime.” Really the warmth was pleasant after weeks on end of chill, but Emeliana could endure no more. “I’ll return in time for the next dish.”

Emeliana hurried to the peristyle. Anyone from the party would assume she wanted only a breath of fresh air, or perhaps to avail herself of one of the pots to be emptied by the slaves. Instead she walked into the cold without her cloak, gulping in the frosty air as though she hadn’t breathed for minutes. Her hands shook as she braced them against a crimson-painted column.

And then a quiet voice said, “Forgive my intrusion, domina, but I knew we should speak before the emperor noticed anything amiss.”  

She turned to see Charelius standing there. Even a slave could be excused to relieve himself; probably that was the reason he’d given when he followed her.

As badly as Emeliana wanted to beg for forgiveness, she did not feel she deserved it. She said only, “I’m very glad you’re alive.”

“As am I.”

Charelius’ mind was closed to her now, more than it had ever been before. And that strange, mental recognition she had sensed before – he had become far more powerful in their time apart. What did he do, for the Emperor? Was the price of his survival reading minds, revealing disloyalty? If so, Emeliana knew she’d be the first tossed off the Tarpeian Rock, and surely Charelius wouldn’t mind watching her fall.

Then he continued, voice halting, “I always understood you wouldn’t have spoken if you had guessed the truth.”

“I didn’t. I never realized. But I should have.”

“I used to be glad you didn’t know.” Charelius stepped further into the peristyle, his breath visible in the chilly night air. He wore a brilliantly dyed tunic – dark blue with a thick golden stripe down the middle – perhaps as a sign of imperial favor. Emeliana knew by now that such favor was a double-edged sword. “Anyway, I didn’t go to the mines. Instead I was taken to a good household, where I made many friends. I’d say it all happened for the best if not for – ”

His voice trailed off. Emeliana rushed to fill the silence.  “I haven’t spoken to my father since my wedding day.”

Charelius didn’t reply immediately. Then he looked toward her, blue eyes full of such emotion that it would have overwhelmed her even without her Mark of Minerva. “He loves you very dearly.”

Emeliana’s throat tightened. “Why should you care about that?”

“I don’t.” His sandaled foot kicked at the soft earth. “I meant that it helps, knowing he has suffered too. Perhaps it’s wrong to rejoice in another’s suffering, but I can’t be sorry for him. You … avenged me. Maybe you were the only one who ever could have.” Then he caught himself. “I’m sorry. I oughtn’t to have followed you out here. But if Sebastianus realized we knew one another, he might become curious, and that would be uncomfortable for us both. It won’t be so strange from now on.”

He did not forgive her. He wanted to, but did not. That could be borne. Emeliana found herself steadier now that she knew where she stood with Charelius – and now that she knew he’d actually had some happiness in his time away from Rome. Yet there was one more thing he had to understand. Just as Charelius began to move inside, she said, “I’ve been attending the meetings.”

Charelius stopped, then glanced over his shoulder at her. “Meetings?”

“The gatherings of the Marked, led by the Vestal Junia.”

His eyes lit up, and at once he was alive again, himself again. “She’s continued having them? Sebastianus allows it?”

“How can he stop it? Even the emperor would not dare to go against a Vestal who keeps her vows, especially not for something so seemingly blameless.”

Charelius’ smile was wickeder than she’d ever seen it before. She realized this might have been the first moment he showed her his true self. “’Seemingly.’”

Emeliana smiled back.

 

4.

 

After two years fighting Germans, living in a tent, Scota had thought returning to Rome would be a pleasure and a comfort. Now he found himself missing the mud and barbarians.

One of the dangers he had known to expect. Even before Domitian’s fall, Scota had been weighing Alexander’s praise of Sebastianus versus the other whispers he’d heard … whispers that had only grown louder since Sebastianus gained the throne. In Rome, he had understood, he would have to make up his own mind and take a stand on what promised to be the next great struggle for power.

Until the night he met Sebastianus, Scota had truly believed his brother would be proved right.

While Emeliana was away from the couches, Sebastianus had confided in Alexander. “While your wife’s tender ears can’t hear this, I wanted to let you know we’ll be having a magnificent spectacle in the Colosseum in a few days, and one I might need you to devise a few particularly gruesome displays for.”

“What’s the occasion?” Alexander said.

“Some Marked gladiators who refuse to die. They are hard to kill, you see, and it’s finally going to be done, no matter how long it takes. I’ve thought of a way to finish off that Gaul, the one with the claws, but I need you to figure out how to kill Magnus, Marked by Vulcan. Plenty of people in Rome have seen him fight and can let you know his methods. Provide me with plans, backup, that sort of thing, can’t you?” Sebastianus had looked around. “Where’s that new boy of mine? Charelius should know to hurry back faster than this.”

The hapless slave had reappeared shortly, Emeliana not far behind, so Scota had only been able to raise the subject with Alexander the next day, as they exercised at the baths.

“Since when – ” Scota panted as he threw the medicine ball to Alexander, “do you design – torments for gladiators?”

“Any nobleman might be asked to help contribute to the games,” Alexander huffed, tossing the ball back. “Financially or creatively.”

“Our family’s never participated in that kind of thing.”

“I know you and Father disapprove,” Alexander replied, holding his arms open for the next toss, and wincing when it landed heavily against his chest. “Frankly I don’t care for gladiatorial bouts much myself. But an emperor must provide spectacle, and I serve the emperor.”

Scota knew the games technically served a religious purpose, but he also knew such purpose had long since become lost to arena bloodlust. Setting men against each other to battle without any real meaning – it made a mockery of Roman soldiers and true combat. Yet another point troubled him even more. “These gladiators are Marked by the gods. Isn’t that exactly the kind of thing Sebastianus said he was going to end?”

Alexander hesitated, clutching the heavy medicine ball. “He gave them all a chance to serve him. To serve Rome. The gods can only have intended their Marks to increase the Rome’s power and glory.”

“And yet the gods have Marked barbarians.” Scota spoke quietly; he had to tread carefully here. “They did not reserve their gifts for patricians or even for Romans. What right do we have to question their judgment in the people they chose?”

“What right do the Marked have to refuse to serve the gods who granted them power?”

“Serving the gods and serving Sebastianus are two different things.”

“Careful, brother,” Alexander said grimly. “Question the divinity of the emperor, and you’re one step away from treason.”

“Not even Sebastianus claims he’s a god yet.”

“But he’s our emperor. You have to remember that.” Alexander heaved the ball back, surprising Scota, who was one second too late to catch it. The heavy leather-and-sawdust thudded into his belly hard enough to knock him down. It would hardly have mattered – they were in the baths’ sandpit for exercise, all alone at an unfashionable hour of day – except that the jar of his landing sent Scota’s helmet tumbling off his head.

He winced, shutting his eyes as fast as he could, but not fast enough to avoid the smell of smoke. Alexander swore. “I’m sorry! Hold on, hold on – ”

More than anything else, Scota hated these: the moments when he lost his helmet and had to make himself blind, or do terrible damage. The same Mark of Mars that made him so deadly on the battlefield nearly crippled him in regular life.

The reassuring heft of his helmet settled on his head again, and Scota was able to open his eyes. In the sand in front of him he saw a small plate of new-formed glass, still smoldering from where his Mark had hit the sand.

“Forgive me,” Alexander said. “Sometimes I forget how much more difficult your Mark is to bear.”

“It’s all right.” Compared to some of the damage he’d done in the past, a bit of cooling glass in the exercise room was nothing. Scota knew he shouldn’t waste this moment when Alexander wasn’t so wholly focused on duty and honor, this moment when their relationship mattered more than anything else. “I obey the will of the emperor, Alexander. I always have and always will. But I think even loyal Romans can ask what it truly means to be Marked.”

Alexander sat next to him for a few seconds longer, and finally Scota felt as though he were being heard.

He understood his brother’s admiration for Sebastianus all too well. They had been born in the era just after babies known to be Marked began to be valued. Before that, if Marks were evident at birth, they were thought to be evil portents. Most such infants had of course been exposed. Only when some of the Marked had their gifts manifest later in life – when their Marks were more obviously powerful and glorious – did the priests understand that these oddities were gifts from the gods.  But in a society as inflexible as Rome’s, any difference was slow to be accepted. When they were children, Scota and Alexander had heard whispers that they were freaks; their father had been old-fashioned enough to be embarrassed by them, though loving enough to attempt to hide his reaction. But they had known, and their father’s later acceptance never fully healed that old wound. To see a Marked general rise to be emperor – it ought to have been their ultimate vindication.

However, Scota thought that could only be true if the emperor ruled justly and well. He doubted that was true of Sebastianus.

At last Alexander said, “I’ve long wanted to believe that having a Marked emperor was proof that the gods intended us to work for Rome as she exists, as she stands.”

Scota had wanted to believe that too, but had long ago disregarded it. How could such a thing be true in a world where even slaves were Marked? He said, “Perhaps the gods’ message is … more complex.”

“Perhaps,” Alexander said. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“There’s a meeting of the Marked most noondays, on the steps of the House of the Vestals. Of course, those who serve Sebastianus do not attend; most of those who do are slaves, plebeians, that sort. But the meeting is led by a Vestal, so it must be respectable.”

“Of course.” Scota would have questioned the emperor at the top of his lungs, in the middle of the Forum, before he would have doubted a Vestal Virgin even within his own mind.

Alexander sighed. “Well, Emeliana attends. You know her soft heart. I’m sure she pities the Marked slaves there, takes them extra bread from the kitchen, that sort of thing.”

 _He does not know her,_ Scota thought.

“Of late Sebastianus has become curious about the meeting,” Alexander continued, oblivious to Scota’s change of mood. “He wishes to know what they speak of. Obviously he cannot attend himself; an emperor can hardly pass time with slaves, and their speech would be altered by his presence. By mine, too. If you were to go, you could reassure him that all is well.”

Scota paused before saying, “Why do you not ask Emeliana?”

Alexander looked surprised. “She would not comprehend the subtler elements at work. Political talk. The sort of thing men understand.”

How could anyone who had ever met Emeliana have thought she missed anything? She had taught herself to notice all, to guard against even the smallest slip, and yet she still wanted to be known …

“I’ll go, of course,” Scota said. “Too late for me to get there today, if they even meet, but tomorrow, if the weather improves.”

“Yes, I doubt they’re out in today’s cold. I knew I could count on you.” Alexander grinned so warmly that the guilt in Scota’s chest weighed even more heavily.

That was the other danger that made Scota miss the mud and barbarians of Germania, the one he hadn’t foreseen: Falling in love with his brother’s wife.

 

 

5.

 

It was worth it, Charelius thought. Worth more than a year of separation, worth using his only hour away from Sebastianus all day, worth standing outside in the cold and occasional sleet. All of it was worth it the first moment he saw Junia again.

“You’re alive.” Tears sparkled in her eyes as she clutched at her veil – wanting badly to hug him, but knowing no Vestal could be seen to touch a man. “I never dared to dream it could be possible.”

“The gods must have favored me a little after all.” Charelius kept moving from embrace to embrace; he hadn’t known he could smile like this. “Catula! It’s so good to see you. And _you_.”

“A pity we had such bad weather,” Bestius said, smiling his friendly fanged grin as he clapped Charelius on the back. “Only a few of us made it today, and everyone would have wanted to see you.”

“I hope to bring others to meet you in turn, soon,” Charelius said, thinking of how well Aquilina, Curio and the rest would get along with his old friends in Rome. But Bestius was right about the dire weather. The sky overhead was gray, and before long sleet would be pouring down. He turned all his attention, all his powers, to drawing the group closer together and helping them focus on the most important facts. “Emeliana tells me you see weaknesses in Sebastianus’ control over the Marked.”

This sent a frisson of fear through them – even among themselves, they had never been so blunt – but Charelius tried to buoy them up, help them feel strong. It was Bestius who answered. “His supply of _amissiona_ is limited. Without _amissiona,_ Marked slaves cannot be kept in servitude. Marked freedman and plebeians would not have to obey nobles, whether those nobles were Marked or not.”

“The warehouses just outside Rome contain most of the supply,” Junia said. “And it grows only in one valley.”

Charelius whispered, “So it could be destroyed.”

None of the others had fully made that leap yet, he realized. The fear Sebastianus inspired was too strong. But now the words had been spoken, which took them one step closer to the act.

“By fire,” Bestius whispered. “The fields could be destroyed by fire, and the warehouses too.”

Charelius smiled. “I happen to know a dancer who breathes fire.”

“I have a husband who can ignite it, but he’ll be of no use to us,” Emeliana said, drawing her white palla more closely around her hair. Over the dull ivory of the temple roofs around them hung a low, iron-gray, snow-fat sky. “His brother – Scota – he might be different. I’m not sure yet.”

The surge of feeling that ran through Emeliana then awakened Charelius’ curiosity, then his pity. Although part of him resisted feeling any sympathy for her, the woman who had destroyed his happiness and, indirectly, Erich’s life – he also remembered what it felt like to want someone you couldn’t truly have. 

“You should not destroy the _amissiona_ ,” said another voice. “Not all of it.”

Charelius turned to see the only new member of the Marked group he hadn’t known before: Tall, dark, with snowy white hair that belied her youthful face: “You think so? Forgive me – I’m Charelius, Marked of Minerva.”

“I am Aura. It was Ceres who marked me, giving me the ability to bring rain or sun to the fields.” She straightened to her full (considerable) height as she spoke. “You are only considering those who must take _amissiona_. You are not considering those who do not.”

Charelius saw the images in her mind, and nodded. “Of course. Sebastianus and his Marked generals – if we had to go against them, and could somehow dose them with the stuff – that would help.”

“Take away Sebastianus’ power?” As soon as the words came out of Emeliana’s mouth, she glanced around, afraid of having been overheard, but the Forum was all but deserted on this dismal day.

“ _Amissiona_ is bitter, though. Hard to disguise.” Bestius turned to Junia. “Could you get me a measure of it? If I could experiment a bit, come up with a way to hide it in something … “

“I’ll get it,” Junia promised, as she frowned up at the darkening sky. “Aura, couldn’t you see to this? Warm things up a bit?”

“I could,” Aura answered, unruffled. “But I do not fight nature when it is not necessary. To honor Ceres is to accept the chill of winter as well as the beauty of spring.”

“Very well,” Charelius sighed. Probably it was too late for any of his other Marked friends to join them today anyway – and besides, he still had so much catching up to do with Junia, Bestius and the others. But at that moment the sky opened up, pouring sleet down and making them all wince.

“The next good day!” Junia cried out, running inside as the others began to run for their various homes and shelter. Emeliana held up one hand to him, white sleeve of her cloak streaming behind her, as she dashed for safety; only Aura walked slowly, as content with sleet as she would have been with sunshine.

Charelius had to run back to the palace, his only home now, though he could never really call it shelter. But he shouted back, the words giving him strength, “The next good day!”

As he ran, he saw a figure approaching him, small and slight – garbed in black.

“Marina!” He ran even faster, heedless of the cold and the ice, as he saw her welcoming smile. Marina’s hair streamed behind her as her feet pounded the stones of the street, and they skidded to a stop just short of each other. Charelius managed to throw his arms around her in such a way that he didn’t touch her skin, and she laughed out loud in his embrace.

“It’s you! How is it you?” Marina pulled back just far enough to look at his face, her smile open-mouthed in wonder. “You’re alive, you’re all right – I can’t believe it.”

They were near enough the Temple of Castor and Pollux to duck under the portico for shelter. Charelius guided her there, unable to stop smiling stupidly. “I hadn’t realized how good it would be to see everyone again. I missed you tremendously.”

Marina’s smile was equally grateful. “I heard Sebastianus got a new slave, someone Marked by Minerva, but I never dreamed it was you. We thought you’d been sold to the mines!”

“I escaped that fate.” If only Erich had known it – he might not have been defeated, then. Charelius’ smile faltered.

Marina paused. “You’ve heard, haven’t you?”

“About Erich? Yes.” He resisted the urge to ask about Erich’s last days; surely it would be too much to bear. Yet, didn’t he want to know everything he could about every moment of Erich’s life?

Before he could open his mouth to speak, though, Marina said, “I can’t believe the emperor’s bringing them back here. Erich and Lucan both. They’ve been in the arena so long, anyone with any decency would free them – ”

“What?” Charelius whispered. His mind darted into Marina’s, seizing the memory he needed, and her knowledge unfolded in his mind, blossoming outward and outward until there was room for no feeling beyond joy.

It was like being reborn. Erich was _alive._

 

**

 

Aura obviously meant what she said about honoring winter. The cold remained fierce for days, so much so that Charelius found himself flashing back to Britannia as a child.

(Once he had tried to explain snow to Erich, who had never seen it in his life. Erich had been lying next to him, his handsome face creased in puzzlement. “So it’s frozen water, but it’s not ice.”

“No. It’s soft. Fluffy, even. And whiter than the whitest wool you ever saw.”

“And it covers everything?”

“Like a blanket. It’s so beautiful, Erich.”

But Erich had wrinkled his nose. “It doesn’t sound beautiful. It sounds cold.”

“Cold and beautiful both,” Charelius had whispered, before leaning in for another kiss.

Would they have the chance to kiss again soon? Even to look again on Erich’s face would be more happiness than Charelius had thought he could still feel.)

No, Charelius didn’t mind the chill, not with thoughts of Erich to warm him. What he minded were the endless days spent inside, with Sebastianus, and the unease of knowing that the emperor was bored.

“My fighters for my next games are marooned at Ostia,” Sebastianus said idly one evening, as he lay on his couch. “The roads are impassable with muck.”

 _Erich is in Ostia. Erich is so close, now, so very close. Only one day’s journey lies between us._ “Not forever, lord and god.”

“No, nothing lasts forever.” He smiled at Charelius. “For tonight, I’ve prepared a little game.”

Charelius’ chest tightened as he imagined the soldiers coming in, seizing him … but those weren’t the images flickering in Sebastianus’ mind. What were they? Somehow the scene involved someone Sebastianus did not know …

“Bring him in,” Sebastianus said.

Two praetorians entered, dragging between them a prisoner. Charelius sucked in a breath as he recognized the man they held: Lucius Emelianus.

His former owner had not shaved in a day or two; his tunic was dingy and stained. They must have pulled him into custody under some invented pretext. Fear had carved lines into his face; it seemed that far more than a year and a half had passed, at least for him. When Emelianus recognized Charelius, he startled, but he was too cowed to say anything.

“This is the man who owned you?” Sebastianus said idly, while taking a fig from a platter.

“… yes, lord and god.”

“And so this is the man who had you nearly every night.”

“Yes, lord and god.” Charelius could not think where this scene would end. Why would Sebastianus want to punish anyone for hurting Charelius in the same way he planned to hurt Charelius himself?  

“I have wondered how much anger remains in the hearts of those who have been injured,” Sebastianus said. “Whether they learn how to obey, or whether resentment lingers dangerously within them. So I have devised a test.”

Emelianus wheezed, “What is the meaning of this?”

Sebastianus threw a fig at the prisoner, silencing him, and continued speaking. “As you know, Charelius, I have promised you a rape. The day is coming when you will be taken, repeatedly, for my pleasure – but not, I should think, for yours.”

 _This will never happen, but you must not know it yet._ “No, lord and god.”

“You’d like to avoid that fate, wouldn’t you? Well, you have a chance. Take this dagger.” The emperor held it out to Charelius, and despite every law against a slave holding a weapon, Charelius had no choice but to accept it. “Go now and cut out the heart of Lucius Emelianus. Give it to me, and you have my word that you shall never be raped.”

Charelius stood still, unsure what to do.

“Well,” Sebastianus added. “You’ll never be raped by my order. I can’t vouch for your safe conduct through back alleys late at night, so on and so forth. Still, that seems unlikely, and if you don’t kill Emelianus now, your rape is a certainty. So the bargain seems clear.”

“It is,” Charelius said. “Lord and god.”

Sebastianus’ eyes crinkled at the corners, as close as he came to a smile. “Nor will you be punished for taking your former master’s life. You are doing your emperor’s bidding. You can take your revenge now and save yourself entirely.”

Charelius’ Mark told him this was the truth, so far as it went. Although he intended to save himself from rape, if he could avoid the attack entirely – avoid showing Sebastianus his true power until the right moment – that would be better for him, for his friends, for all the Marked. And yet he could not move.

He hated Emelianus as much as he could hate anyone besides the emperor himself. Although he had despised every night he’d spent servicing the man, the truest source of his loathing was Emelianus’ pettiness in selling him to the mines. The smallness of it – the years of separation this had caused, and the denial of the happy life he and Erich had hoped to share – as he thought of it, Charelius’ hands tightened around the knife.

Only Junia’s mercy had saved Erich from dying because of the petulant cruelty of Lucius Emelianus. Charelius’ hand tightened around the dagger’s hilt.

Could he kill Emelianus? Yes, he could.

But this was not merely about vengeance, or about protecting himself. Sebastianus had said that he wanted to know how brightly revenge burned inside a man’s heart. Obviously he had assessed Charelius as one who would not normally take human life; this assessment was correct, though perhaps not as absolute as Sebastianus believed. This was a test, one set to determine whether or not Charelius could be moved to violence against an owner who had wronged him.

If he killed Emelianus now, perhaps he would avoid any attempted rape. But from that moment on, Sebastianus would doubt him. Suspect him. Know that the day would come when Charelius would turn against him, too.

More than anything else, Charelius needed the emperor to believe that could never happen. _He cannot suspect me, not now,_ Charelius thought. _Not now that I finally see how to move against him, and we might have a chance to bring him down. Not now that I have a chance to see Erich again._

Besides, if Emelianus had been deprived of his beloved daughter – his only true joy – then the life he led now was punishment enough, and not worth the taking.

Slowly Charelius set the dagger down. “I cannot, lord and god.”

“You can’t?” Sebastianus laughed. “You cannot kill him, even with impunity?”

“For the sake of his daughter,” Charelius improvised. “She was always very good to me.”

Lucius Emelianus breathed out sharply, then began to make a raspy noise it took Charelius a moment to recognize as crying. In Emelianus’ heart Charelius could feel no gratitude toward his former slave, only loneliness for his lost child.

“Let him go,” Sebastianus said, with a careless wave of one hand. As the guards dragged Lucius Emelianus out of the room, the emperor’s attention turned back to his new slave. “How soft you are. How foolish.”

Charelius bowed his head. _Please not tonight. Please let him not do it tonight._

Sebastianus’ fingers ran through Charelius’ hair – almost a caress – before he clouted his ear. “You disappoint me. Go on to bed, then, you boring thing.”

 _Yes, boring. Dull as drying mud. The sort of man who would never hurt you._ Charelius hurried out before the emperor could think better of releasing him.

He had made the tactical choice, and he knew it, but that didn’t help Charelius sleep any better. How much longer would Sebastianus wait? It could be hours; it could be years. They would have to have their plan in place as soon as possible, in any case.

And yet he could not think upon their plan, could not come up with anything so complicated as strategy. His heart kept singing to him, singing Erich’s name.

 

6.

 

“About time the weather cleared,” Lucan said.

Erich nodded. He knew that Lucan wanted to reach Rome as badly as he did, though for different reasons. Lucan hoped, finally, to have a chance to die, and didn’t care how it came to pass; Erich fully expected to die, but hoped to take Sebastianus down with him, if not the Empire itself.

 _Kill the emperor and the rest crumbles,_ Erich thought. The seeds he’d planted across the world the past several months would see to that. When Sebastianus fell, the Marked would rise. That would take time – even news as momentous as the death of an emperor required weeks or even months to reach the far corners of the Empire. But as the word spread, so would the rebellion. Not every person he’d reached out to would live up to their word, but some would, and others would take courage from their actions. Soon the wave would build beyond any containment.

The road from Ostia to Rome was one of the most-traveled in the world, because Ostia served as the city’s main port.  Old stones were worn low by decades or even centuries of wagon wheels, donkey’s hooves and boots. They raced along it so quickly that Erich sometimes thought their cart might shake to pieces.

“What’s the rush?” Lucan said between drags on his _amissiona_ cigar. “You missed your good buddy Sebastianus that much?”

To Erich’s surprise, their guard – a burly, black-bearded fellow named Roveca – scowled, like he didn’t want to see Sebastianus at all. “I’ve got my orders. He wants you available for the first possible games, and those will probably be tomorrow. They’ll parade you this afternoon if I get you there in time.”

“More to look forward to,” Lucan growled, leaning back against the wooden rails of the cart. His spiky dark hair looked more like an animal’s mane than ever before. But there was something in his eyes – an eagerness that had nothing to do with death, something almost like hope.

 _The girl_ , Erich realized. _He hopes to see Marina again, before the end._

Would she still be alive? If so, by now she might be Sebastianus’ creature entirely, loyal to him or at least cowed into never admitting otherwise. Yet Erich found himself hoping those two might get a chance to speak. He had no idea whether his assassination of the emperor would allow for Lucan’s survival or not, but if it did not, Lucan and Marina deserved a proper goodbye. Everyone deserved that, and so few got it.

The homes and shops along the road grew more frequent, grew larger, became part of the city almost before anyone could realize it. Then they passed the graveyards; no one could be buried within the city itself, so it was ringed with tombs. Gray stone figures watched Erich and Lucan being carted inside: soldiers still in their armor, children like baby-faced Cupids, an Etruscan couple curled together in a half-embrace. Then, finally, the hills of Rome, the slanting _insulae_ , and finally marble and stone.

Erich watched the preparations for the “parade” with dark satisfaction. It was no great spectacle, only the marching of some Marked prisoners, along with he and Lucan, to the Domus Augustus. There they would be presented to the emperor as crowds gathered; word would spread about tomorrow’s games, and – most cruelly of all – they were to be invited in to drink and eat their last good meal.

Fine with him. He didn’t mind drinking some of Sebastianus’ good wine before killing the man.

 _No point in doing it at the party, though_ , Erich thought as the parade got under way – the prisoners shuffling along in their dirty tunics, he and Lucan shivering in their scanty armor. _If I kill Sebastianus in his house, it’s just another dead emperor to be replaced by the next arrogant Roman in line. The people have to see him fall._

As Erich walked, though, he found it difficult to retain the power of his determination. By now he recognized these buildings, these streets – and he found himself remembering who he had been when he walked here before. What he had hoped for, who he had loved.

Even a few faces were familiar: The little dark-haired girl who’d been at the handful of the Vestal’s meetings Erich had attended – Catula, wasn’t it? And there, unmistakable in his blue fur, the charioteer Bestius. Would he rise when the time came?

As for the rest of these Romans, crowding around, looking at him with such curiosity and contempt – the streets would run red with their blood.

Finally they came to the Domus Augustus. While their feet tromped the last few steps, the emperor appeared on the steps, grand as a peacock in his purple robes. Erich didn’t bother keeping the sneer from his face. On either side of the emperor stood his famous Marked generals, Avitus and Januarius – all three of them traitors. Hatred swelled his heart as surely as wind swelled the sails of a ship, and Erich felt as though nothing could touch him ever again.

Then something closed around him, instant and implacable, freezing him in place.

Erich could not have turned his body; he could not even have changed his facial expression. Yet somehow this immobility did not frighten him, and within his mind he heard his own thoughts whisper, _Don’t react. Don’t let them see._

Don’t let them see what? And yet – that voice – his thoughts had been in another voice. A voice he knew.

Erich focused on a figure standing behind Emperor Sebastianus, a few steps over …

Charelius. Alive. Here. Now.

Had it not been for the hold on him – Charelius’ hold, Erich realized – he might have cried out, or collapsed. He was too stunned to feel joy or love or anything beyond astonishment so profound it turned his bones to water. Even with Charelius standing at the top of the steps, many paces between them, Erich could see the sparkle of unshed tears in his eyes; Charelius had to control himself, and was having a harder time of it.

But nobody was looking at the slave. They were looking at the gladiators and the emperor who owned their lives.

“Tomorrow,” Sebastianus said in a ringing voice that promised amusement to the waiting crowds and death to the combatants. “Tomorrow you shall see such games as you have never witnessed before. But today, the warriors will feast with their emperor, to honor the gods who have Marked us all.”

A cheer went up from the crowd. Normally Erich would have hated them for it. Now it was just noise that barely sounded over the rushing of blood in his ears, or the pounding of his own heart.

_He’s alive. Well and healthy, and even more beautiful than he was two years ago. How can that be possible? It can’t. I’m dreaming._

Charelius’ voice whispered in his mind, _No. This is real._

As the guards began to move them forward, Charelius released his hold; as alien as the touch of his mind had been, Erich found himself bereft without it. But now he could walk into the palace after him – he could find Charelius once more.

“Shit,” Lucan muttered as the two of them marched up the steps. “Is that –”

“Yes. He’s alive.”

“Glad to know it,” Lucan said, with more sincerity than Erich had known the man could express. Erich might have smiled at him, except that it would mean looking away from Charelius’ retreating figure for too long. Besides, he knew Lucan wouldn’t be looking at him; he would be searching the crowd for Marina.

The scene within the Domus Augustus wasn’t a proper banquet – just tables of food and fountains of wine, meant more as a marketplace for the wealthy to get a look at the fighters and place their bets accordingly. That suited Erich perfectly well. With a hand that shook slightly, he helped himself to a deep draught of wine, then searched through the crowd, his eyes hungry for Charelius.

 _Maybe it was only a dream. Maybe I imagined him, or the gods sent his_ genius _back to say goodbye to me_ , Erich thought wildly. But just as he began to think that might be true, the crowd swirled and parted so that he glimpsed Charelius – only for a moment – at the edge of the gathering, near the columns at the far end of the hall. Their eyes met, and the breath fled Erich’s lungs as though he had been struck.

Erich began weaving through the crowd; Charelius didn’t move, his blue eyes flicking over toward where Sebastianus held court. If they revealed their connection openly, Erich realized, they would give Sebastianus a chance to use their vulnerability against them. Even at this moment – especially at this moment – they had to be careful.

Just before Erich got to Charelius, though, another figure darted through the crowd, people parting wide for her … “Erich!” cried Marina, her face alight like a little candle. Her joy at seeing him – and Erich’s pleasure in seeing her – would have delighted Erich at any moment he wasn’t so desperate to be with Charelius.

“Marina. I’m glad to see you, but – ” Erich’s voice trailed off as he tried to think. He would go stand on the opposite side of the column from Charelius, so they’d appear to be standing back to back, but were only a foot apart.

Then Marina saw Charelius too. “Oh. _Oh._ I want to talk to you both, but – not now.” Then her eyes widened. “Is Lucan here too?”

“Yes,” Erich murmured, carefully keeping his eyes on another corner of the room as he sidled into position. “Find him. He wants to see you.”

Needing no further encouragement, Marina hurried off. Now Charelius and Erich were alone together …

… as alone as they could be in a room filled with a hundred people, where they could not even turn to face one another without awakening suspicion. But together. Together.

“You’re alive,” Charelius whispered, his voice shaking, perhaps with the same boundless joy Erich felt. “For years I thought you were dead. I saw you defeated in the arena. The vision was in a man’s mind, so clear I believed it.”  

“I lost a match – just after you were sold away – but I wasn’t killed. That Vestal of yours begged mercy from Domitian, and he granted it.”

“So Marina told me. May both Vesta and Venus keep and protect Junia,” Charelius prayed fervently. “I never dared to even dream of this. Oh, Erich, I thank all the gods there ever were.”

“The gods do not hear us,” Erich said. “They Mark us, they choose us, but they do not hear, and I am glad of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I prayed for you to be dead.” His voice hoarsened as he recalled all those nights when he had pretended Charelius was at his side. “I sacrificed for it. That mistress of yours told me you were sold to the mines – and the cruelty there – I didn’t want you to have to endure it long. So I prayed for you to be dead.”

Charelius’ voice was soft. “The gods in their wisdom knew what was right.”

Perhaps. But they could discuss the wisdom of the gods later.

“How are you here?” Erich asked, daring a quick sideways glance. Charelius bore no signs of the starvation and cruelty of the mines; instead he looked better fed and healthier than he had even during their one summer. “Did your mistress lie? Were you not sold to the mines after all?” If he’d had a chance to rescue Charelius, a chance that lie had cost him …  

“She told the truth. But I sickened on the way, because Emelianus was too hasty, and didn’t tell them I needed _amissiona_. A kind woman bought me, and gave me a good home in Hispania, and never made me take it again. I’ve had the full use of my Mark for a long time now, Erich. Minerva has blessed me more profoundly than I ever guessed.”

Erich remembered the uncanny hold that had seized him – saved him – on the palace steps. “Why are you _here_?”

“Sebastianus came and took all Lilandra’s Marked slaves from her. All my friends. He made them drink the _amissiona_ , all of them but me. They’re still alive, so far, and we are loyal to each other.”

“What does Sebastianus want of you?” He thought of Charelius suffering at Emelianus’ hands; the idea of the emperor using him the same way, the very emperor who made a mockery of their Marks – it was too enraging to be borne. Erich’s hands curled into tight fists at his side.

“Erich. No. He doesn’t like men.”

Charelius spoke truthfully, Erich thought, but … carefully.

Time for explanations later. Only one thing mattered now. “When can I see you?” Erich pleaded. “Tonight? Say it will be tonight. It must be.”

“You’re going to survive the fights tomorrow. Swear it to me.”

“I do so swear,” Erich said. “But I want to see you. I need to see you.” _To hold you. To kiss your lips again._ “Don’t make me wait.”

“Do you think I want to wait? Charelius breathed out, half a laugh. “It’s difficult to get out of the palace, but – tonight Sebastinaus will be distracted. I’ll do it. I don’t know how, but I’ll do it. Tonight.”

“Tonight,” Erich repeated. He had not known he could feel joy like this – so deep and overwhelming that it eclipsed the rest of the world.

“And perhaps – ” Charelius’ voice trailed off. All around them milled various aristocrats, none of them paying any attention to the curiously separate gladiator and slave. “—I’ve been turning away people’s attention. Keeping them interested in other things. I think, if we’re quick about it –“

“Yes?”

Charelius spoke with resolution now. “You mustn’t touch me. If you touch me, I’ll lose focus, and they’ll notice us.”

“I need to touch – ”

“Only a few hours more, my love, just hours. But now, let me look at you.”

Erich turned so that he and Charelius faced each other, within two steps of each other, for the first time since their parting. The beauty of seeing him well and smiling – the way his thirsty heart drank in every detail, from the corners of his smile to his dark, angled brows to his long hands – and the tear trickling down Charelius’ cheek, which Erich saw in the moment before his own version blurred.

The party went on, with the emperor smiling triumphantly, and slaves carrying figs or pitchers of lemon water, and the strumming of a lyre barely audible over the murmuring and laughter of the crowd. None of them realized that Charelius’ Mark of Minerva kept them from turning to see two humble slaves, standing very close, in tears from the joy of simply seeing one another again. 


	8. Once Lost, Now Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ROMAN NAMES:
> 
> Charles = Charelius  
> Erik = Erich/thonius or Magnus  
> Emma = Emeliana  
> Logan = Lucan  
> Marie/Rogue = Marina  
> Jean = Junia  
> Henry/Beast = Bestius  
> Alexander = Alexander, yay!  
> Kitty/Shadowcat = Catula  
> Scott = Scota  
> Sebastian = Sebastianus  
> Lilandra = Lilandra  
> Kurt/Nightcrawler = Curio  
> Raven = Roveca  
> Angel = Aquilina  
> Armando = Armin  
> Azazel = Avitus  
> Janos = Januarius  
> Bobby/Iceman = Iuventius  
> Ororo/Storm = Aura  
> Sean Cassidy/Banshee = Cassius

1.

 

Marina was used to parting any crowd. People throughout Rome knew what her black robes meant, recognized the silver streak in her hair. Always, before, when people had slunk away from her, she had felt rejected. Been reminded of how she was set apart. Now she gloried in it, because it meant all these hangers-on – all these wealthy men sizing up the Marked as though this were any other slave market – they practically ran from her, clearing her path to Lucan.

Even though he did not face her, she would have known him anywhere. The same spiky hair, the same brawny shoulders, even the same _amissiona_ cigar in his broad hand. Only at the last moment did she doubt herself. Maybe – maybe her memories had failed her, given her an idea of this man she had so cared for – an idea that had nothing to do with reality, just a dream she’d carried around for so long she’d worn it threadbare.

But as Marina paused, he sensed the sudden hush around him and turned, and it was Lucan, just as she had remembered him.

When he saw her, in that first instant, he forgot to be guarded. Forgot to be careful. Lucan smiled at Marina in the way she’d always dreamed he might – better than that, even because she had never dreamed he could look so happy. Her own grin answered his, because she couldn’t yet find words.

One of the senators backing the games stepped a little closer to Lucan. With a huffy tone that made it clear he thought a slave had forgotten her place, he said, “If you don’t mind – ”

Marina found her voice. “I do. I do mind.” She locked eyes with the senator as she tugged off one of her gloves. For a slave this was unspeakable impudence, but they took more note of her Mark than her rudeness. The area around them cleared very quickly.

“Look at you,” Lucan said. His smile was harder now, more like the one she remembered, but there was no disguising the warmth in his eyes. “When did you get all grown up?”

“I was always grown up. You just learned how to see it.” Marina reached out with her still-gloved hand; to her astonishment, he took it, even drew it closer to him. “You lived.”

“Can’t help that. Would if I could. At least, I would now. Got to see you again – that was about the last thing on my list.” Lucan’s brow furrowed. “Do they treat you right?”

She shook her head. “I’m his executioner. The same as always, except now it’s not in the arena. I don’t kill prisoners anymore; I kill his enemies. It’s still official, and it’s still horrible.”  

“Where do you live? You got – friends, people to be with?” He was so worried that it both melted her heart and made her feel guilty. For the past year and a half, Lucan had been dragged across the Empire, being forced to suffer – and yet he’d been worried about her?

“I’m all right. I live here – over in a corner of the palace where nobody has to see me if they don’t want to, but I get to the meetings at the House of the Vestals, plus sometimes I can spend time with Roveca – ”

“Roveca?” Lucan scowled. “That guy bothering you?”

It took Marina a moment to recall that Lucan would never have met Roveca in her true, feminine form. She would have reassured him, but that was when the crowd around them went quiet.

By now she had learned even the fall of Sebastianus’ feet, the slither of the hem of his silk robe against the tiled floors. Marina straightened and turned to face her owner, ruler of the empire, lord and god.

“What have we here?” The emperor’s eyes darted from one to the other. There was something quick about him, almost furtive at times, even though he ruled the known world. Marina wondered what he had been before his Mark of Hercules asserted itself. “That’s right. I remember now. The two of you were owned by the same _ludus._ Old friends, perhaps?”

“Something like that,” Marina said quickly, not trusting Lucan to answer without his claws.

“Just as well you’re catching up now.” Sebastianus’ hand closed over Lucan’s shoulder, a possessive touch that made Lucan’s eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. “You won’t have much chance tomorrow, when you meet again.”

“Tomorrow?” No sooner had Marina said it than she realized the horrible truth.

Sebastianus patted Lucan as though he were a prize horse, then stepped away. “This one can’t die. But your touch always kills. Which of you has the stronger Mark? Tomorrow we’ll find out.”

There was no saying what Lucan felt. He squared his shoulders as though it were any other challenge, and he kept his face impassive. But Marina knew her horror was obvious for all around to see. A few people even laughed, but she had no heart left over to hate them. She could only attempt to bear what she now knew: Tomorrow, Sebastianus would send her into the arena with Lucan, to kill him.

 

2.

 

Charelius tried not to use his Mark on his guards often; if Sebastianus realized he was doing so, it would be the end of the little liberty he had. He knew he needed to save his ability to shape minds for an important moment.

But surely nothing could be more important than tonight.

Pulse pounding, he walked past his guards and out of the palace. Nobody he saw could see him in return, though perhaps they wondered if a fog was creeping in, blurring the shadows. The woolen cloak he’d managed to grab provided some shelter from the winter-evening chill.

Erich had said they were being kept at their old _ludus_ ; even after so many months away from Rome, Charelius could have found his way there by heart. Yet like most Romans, he avoided traveling alone late at night when he could help it. Except on the very largest streets, the only illumination was provided by the occasional torch in the hand of someone else’s slave, invariably headed in some other direction, and probably thieves lurked about. But Charelius would appear no more than fog to them, too, and at least it was a clear night with a bright, near-full moon.

The baths of Nero. The stalls where he used to buy a sweet cake for them to share as a treat. This hill he had always cursed for its steepness, this bend in the road – and there, at last, the _ludus._

Before, when he had visited, the gates had been open. Now they were locked, tall iron Charelius could no more climb than get through. And when had all the bars been twisted at the top? Yet as he stood there, staring upward, he heard the creaking of metal as the space between two bars widened, further and further.

_The gods hid me as I came to him_ , Charelius thought with a rush of gratitude. _Now they help him let me in._

Quickly he darted through the gap and hurried toward the tall shadow he could now see in the darkness. Erich’s form had no more than taken shape before he took Charelius’ hand and pulled him inside the same small chamber where they had first made love.

One small oil lamp burned in a corner as Charelius burrowed into Erich’s arms, and once again felt the warmth of his embrace. Erich held him so tightly he could hardly breathe, and he didn’t care. All he cared about was drinking in the scent of Erich’s skin. He pressed his hand against the center of Erich’s chest to feel the heartbeat there, the powerful thumping reminding Charelius that the man he loved was still alive, alive, alive.

Never had he felt safer, surer, more completely loved. Every dark hour of the past year and a half was worthwhile, because it had brought him here.

Erich took a deep breath that caught in his chest – as though he were fighting a sob. Although Charelius did not reach into Erich’s mind, his more powerful Mark caught the torment and radiance of Erich’s love; the knowledge of it brought tears to Charelius’ eyes too.

_No, no, we mustn’t start crying again. The time for tears has ended._

Charelius pressed a kiss to Erich’s shoulder before he pulled back to look him in the face once again.

They stared at one another for a moment, not knowing where or how to begin. Erich’s scarred hands clenched and straightened against Charelius’ shoulder blades, his expression unsure as he whispered, “After the banquet, I thought – I bid you to come to me, even though it was dangerous, and I have stood here imagining you torn to pieces by them – “

“Shhh. You see? I’m here. I’m here now.”

“But if they catch you –”

“My Mark is more than strong enough to get me out of the palace. And no one will hear us tonight.”

Erich nodded, but his pale eyes still searched Charelius’ anxiously, as though he might have a wound that needed tending. How beautiful he was – the rugged jaw, the close-shorn hair, the low set of his broad shoulders; still, Erich took Charelius’ breath away. Tenderness swelled within Charelius’ chest as he realize the way Erich stood now – the mixture of longing and uncertainty – was just like it had been when they first fell in love. They had to learn how to touch each other again.

Gently he murmured, “I remember teaching you how to kiss.” He smiled, hoping to tease Erich past his fear. “Have you forgotten?”

Erich’s smile was slow, almost shy. “Remind me.”

Charelius went on tiptoe, bringing their lips together for one quick brush that made them both suck in a breath. Actually touching Erich again – kissing him – the energy crackled through Charelius, lighting him up. Their gazes met as their nervousness began to melt into delight. Erich kissed him the next time, just a little longer – then again, a true kiss now.

He braced his hands against Erich’s shoulders, as Erich stepped closer, deepening their next kiss. Charelius’ back thumped against the stone wall, but he didn’t mind. This way Erich framed him, enclosed him. His fingers interlaced behind Erich’s neck as they smiled at each other, lips brushing so that it was almost impossible to tell the smile and the kiss apart.

Charelius opened his mouth slightly, and Erich made a soft, eager sound as he caught Charelius’ lower lip between his. Again. Again – and this time their tongues brushed against each other. Erich groaned. Charelius shuddered. It was like catching fire.

Now every kiss became deeper, fiercer, more intense. They were drawing each other in. Devouring each other. Charelius tugged Erich more firmly into his embrace, so that their bodies pressed together. At first it was enough to feel the warmth of Erich near him, or to flatten his hand against Erich’s chest to feel his heart beating (fast, strong, _alive_ ) against his palm. But then Erich’s thigh slid between his, and he felt the long hard pressure of Erich’s cock against his pelvic bone, and then there could never be enough.

Charelius pulled Erich down, kissing him desperately. By now they were panting between kisses, tugging at their clothes; Charelius’ woolen cloak puddled at his feet just as Erich lifted his tunic away. The sight of his naked body made Charelius moan, almost in pain, as if the long deprivation had come back to him all at once.

Erich’s hand slid beneath Charelius’ tunic, finding his cock. His fingers tightened around him, and Charelius could hardly stand it. Already he was swollen, aching, ready to burst.

Once again they kissed, mouths open and wet.

Then Erich thrust forward. They locked themselves together, thigh to thigh, cocks snug against each other. Already they were both slick with desire, enough that they could start to move – and if it was rough, let it be rough, because it felt so good. Charelius only barely managed to keep the other minds in the _ludus_ in a stupor so that he could cry out, loudly and shamelessly, while Erich’s naked body bucked against his. Erich’s head lolled back as he gave into it, and Charelius clutched him at his narrow waist, feeling Erich’s abdominal muscles working beneath his hands, pulling Erich even more fiercely against his body.

_How is he so beautiful?_ It seemed to him as if he could only have dreamed such a man, but his memories had been real. Now he did not have to content himself with memories; now he had flesh and sweat and bone and the taste of Erich’s mouth opening hot against his.

Erich’s movements sped up, stuttered, and then he grunted as wetness blossomed warm and sticky between Charelius’ thighs. Pleasure poured from Erich’s mind into Charelius’, dizzying him. He gave into the next kiss – Erich shaking with release and emotion – but then began moving again, unable to resist.

“My love,” Erich panted, leaning his full weight against Charelius to make it even tighter for him. “My only love.”

That did it. Charelius surrendered, let the world go, and was blinded by the rush of pleasure as he came all over Erich. Then they held each other, trying to catch their breath or at least stand up straight. It was no use. Charelius thought they would have fallen if not for the wall against his back.

Finally Erich steadied himself enough that he could pull away Charelius’ tunic so that he, too, was naked – save for the collar around his neck. Then that, too, stretched wide under Erich’s Mark, and Erich lifted it off Charelius’ neck.

_Free_ , Charelius thought. _In his arms I have always been free._

 

**

 

 Every night Erich had tried to remember Charelius in complete detail, to bring him back to life at least in his mind. Only now did he see how he had failed. Try though he had, he could never – never – have recaptured the real man. Charelius was a thousand times more beautiful than his memories.

The aftershocks of pleasure still rippled through his body, but they were as nothing compared to the joy of simply being with Charelius again.

Erich’s finger traced around the calloused places the collar had already chafed into Charelius’ skin – but then he swept Charelius up against him, lifting him a few inches above the ground so that he laughed. Together they stumbled to the bed, where Erich pulled Charelius into his lap.

“Look at you.” Erich stroked his belly, his arm, the curve of his hip. “I forgot there could be such happiness in this world.”

“I know. Being this close to you, when I thought I never would be again – not in the world of the living – ” Charelius shook his head.

Words were inadequate. Only another kiss would do.

For a long time they lay there, folded into each other. Erich breathed in the scent of his lover’s skin, the smells of sweat and sex. Charelius brushed his knuckles along Erich’s jawline, then brought his hand down to tenderly cup Erich’s spent cock. If he could have never left that room or that bed again – if this had proved to be his afterlife – Erich would have been utterly content.

Erich whispered, “You must know how completely I still belong to you.”

“And I to you.”

“There was no one else? In all that time?”

Charelius paused – long enough for every wicked jealous thought in Erich’s heart to taunt him – but then he said, “No. My new owner would have liked for me to lie with her, but she gave me the choice, and I was never quite ready. I could not let you go.”

“Was she very pretty?” Erich asked gruffly. “This owner.”

“Yes. And I liked her, and still will help her if I can; Sebastianus exiled her, for the crime of treating her Marked slaves like human beings. Her friendship should not have cost her so dearly.” Charelius’ fingers traced along Erich’s hairline. “But I did not love Lilandra. From the day I met you, I do not think I could ever have loved another.”

Well. When he put it like that, Erich could be generous.

He dropped a kiss on Charelius’ collarbone, then adjusted their embrace so that they could look into each other’s eyes. “Tell me how you have been. How you’ve lived.”

“I want to hear your story, too.”

“My story you know. Fighting, killing and death.” Blood stained Erich’s memories for a moment, and he shut his eyes, lest he stain Charelius with it too. “Seventy-eight of the Marked – that’s how many I’ve killed, because Domitian and then Sebastianus demanded it. Sebastianus will be the seventy-ninth. Don’t ask me to talk about it any more than that.” He brushed his fingers through Charelius’ soft brown hair. “Dreams of you were my only refuge, before.”

“Then I will be your refuge again,” Charelius promised.

For a while they cuddled together while Charelius told stories interesting and funny by turns; his life in Hispania sounded as though it had been more than pleasant, and the Marked slaves he had lived with were a tightly bound unit, able to work together and practice their skills at a high level. Erich had by now met dozens more of the Marked all over the world, but hearing of the astonishing talents people had never ceased to delight him. “He brought back snow from the mountains too quickly for it to melt?”

“Curio was back in moments. He’s amazing.” Charelius’ expression grew hopeful. “Maybe – maybe he could get you out of the arena – but no. They’ve dosed him too strongly for that.”

As much as Erich wanted to linger over whimsical stories, with Charelius in his arms, he knew their time together could not last forever. “We had better speak of tomorrow, and the games.”

“You must live.” One of Charelius’ hands tightened around Erich’s wrist. “By now you are the greatest fighter the arena has ever known. But if you need help, I can help you. Confuse your opponent.” His smile faltered. “I hate to do that to another of our kind, as trapped as we are, but I would do worse things to save you. What is important is that you endure.”

“What is important is that I kill Sebastianus.”

Charelius sat back, clearly startled. “… tomorrow?”

Erich nodded. Pride washed through him, even more powerful than the anticipation. “I’ve weaned myself down to very little _amissiona_. The new trainer doesn’t understand how much more it would take to really control me.” The old trainer had, to Erich’s great satisfaction, become feed for the leopards. “They’ll give me a sword and armor. Easy, now, to keep my opponent at bay and create a blade I can send up to slash Sebastianus’ throat.”

He expected Charelius to share in his delight, to revel with him in the imminent destruction of their enemy. He did not expect Charelius to pause, frown, and say, “It cannot be tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve been plotting a way of destroying the Empire’s hold over the Marked. We think we have an idea of how to do it. Until we’re sure – better to know what we’re up against. The next emperor will be an unknown quantity, and perhaps harder to fight.”

Erich felt Charelius was missing the point. “Next emperor? There will be no next emperor. Once we’ve killed Sebastianus, the Marked will begin to rise. Not just in Rome, but all over the Empire; I’ve spent the past year and a half making sure of that. Spreading the word from one end of Our Sea to another. Make no mistake, Charelius. We are ready to strike back.”

“You never stopped fighting.” Pride flashed in Charelius’ eyes then, and he smiled at Erich – but somehow he still was not convinced. “Yet there will be another emperor. Trajan, probably, or some other popular general who stays away from Rome, waiting for Sebastianus to weaken. The Marked might defeat a few of them, but all? Not unless we go after their means of control first.”

“You would have us live on under their yoke? Continue on instead of fighting?”

“Listen to me.” Charelius took Erich’s face between his hands. “They don’t have enough _amissiona._ Not for all of us, not forever. Maybe not even for very much longer. If we attack their supplies, and take some of it for ourselves, to use against Sebastianus and his Marked generals – ”

“Use _amissiona_? As if we were Romans?” Erich found it difficult to believe what he was hearing. Maybe Charelius was not alive after all; maybe this was some sort of spirit sent to deceive.

“I know. I would rather set fire to the lot. But if it’s our best chance of stopping Sebastianus in a way that gives us the power, we have to take it.”

“Our best chance is a knife through Sebastianus’ throat.”

“And when he falls? What then? Think of all the legions of Rome. Some of the soldiers are Marked, free men who are loyal to the state. What do you think they will do to a lone gladiator who assassinated their emperor?”

“Bring them on,” Erich growled.

Charelius’ eyebrows knitted together in a scowl, and Erich felt his temper rising – but then, suddenly, a smile spread across Charelius’ face, wiping away all the rest. “I’m arguing with you,” he said. “I’m _arguing_ with you, which means you’re real, because in no dream I ever had of you were you this obstinate. Ever since I found out that you had survived, I’ve wondered if I were only imagining it – but I’m not, I’m not. You’re _real_.”

They kissed, and the touch of their mouths burned away the anger, or perhaps simply turned it into something better.

Erich pulled Charelius back into his arms so that they lay together, limbs entwined. With his broad hands he cradled Charelius’ head against his chest. “Real, and yours, even when you’re wrong about everything.”

“But I’m not. Wrong about everything, I mean.”

As much as Erich hated to admit it, Charelius had raised some valid points. Rome’s soldiers were many, and while hundreds of the Marked had reasons to turn against the emperor, hundreds more did not. He might hold such people in contempt, but that would make them no easier to fight. Still … “You’re not right about everything either. We can’t wait until it will be easy to go against Sebastianus, because it will never be easy. Also, we must strike soon, because he wants to destroy our friends. He means to kill me. And he’s far too close to you.”

Charelius went very still then, and Erich felt the same fear from earlier gripping his heart – the terror of Sebastianus using Charelius for his own pleasure. Although Charelius had denied it, there was some sort of danger; he could see it in the shadows of Charelius’ face.

Before he could ask, though, Charelius said, “You’re right. It has to be soon. If we must make ready faster, then we will. But tomorrow – that’s impossible.”

Erich stroked his fingers through Charelius’ hair. The thought of standing before Sebastianus with a sword in his hand and letting the bastard go … it chafed at him like raw rope. “I don’t know what he has in store for me, but don’t fear. I’ll win. I always do.”

“He didn’t bring you back to Rome without a plan.” Charelius leaned up, his face pale with worry. “Well, we’ll just have to postpone the games for a few days, or even a week.”

“Postpone the games? How?”

“A winter storm, worse than the last.” Charelius had begun to smile. “A woman Marked by Ceres can see to that.”

So the gods were finally aligning the stars in their favor. About time, Erich thought. He cupped Charelius’ face in his hand. “I endured a year and a half without you. Now even a week seems too long.”

“I’ll come back.” The whisper ghosted along Erich’s collarbone and his throat, between soft kisses. “Nothing could keep me away from you. Not now, and not ever again.”

 

3.

 

In the gray hour before dawn, Charelius walked back to the Domus Augustus. He had slept for only a few brief snatches, always stirring when he realized Erich was near him, holding him. They had loved each other so much and so hard that his muscles ached, but despite this and his exhaustion he felt as though he could dance.

The cold air made his breath fog in front of him, and he had to rub his hands together to warm them against the frost. Charelius strolled through the deserted streets, awed by the beauty of Rome when it was still and quiet like this – the curving allegorical figures set into the metopes of every temple, the crimson paint on the columns, the softness of first light on the sloping stone paths. As he walked, in his mind he replayed every touch and every breath. He listened to Erich’s voice over and over again, all their words of love, and laughed to himself. Despite all the obstacles they faced and the great danger ahead, Charelius could only bask in this deep, unexpected joy.

What he did not consider was that happiness makes us careless.

Charelius remembered to cloak himself from the minds of the guards as he walked into the emperor’s house; they did not so much as turn their heads as he came through the gates. Once inside, though, he relaxed his guard, certain that everyone was asleep …

… and sensed an avid, curious mind ahead of him only half a second before the soldier stepped out, blocking his way.

As Charelius’ gut dropped, he thought, _Stay calm. You can erase his mind if you have to._ And he could, couldn’t he? But he still didn’t know for sure; today he would find out, or die.

The black-bearded guard lifted his chin. “Sneaked out, did you? Did you return with a vial of poison? A dagger to put in the emperor’s back?”

“No. I swear it.” Maybe he wouldn’t even have to tamper with the man’s mind. Charelius held out his hands. “You can search me. You’ll find nothing.”

“I’d better … not … “ The guard’s voice trailed off as he stared at Charelius.

What was it? The strange, stunned disbelief within the guard was difficult to interpret, and in his panic, Charelius was finding it difficult to read minds with his usual accuracy. Something had stopped the man in his tracks. Erich had put the iron slave collar back around Charelius’ neck (with apologies, with a sorrowful kiss on the chafed skin below), so it couldn’t be that.

“Your name,” the guard said very quietly. “What is your name?”

“I’m called Charelius.”

“That sounds a little like – ” But the guard stopped talking, taking a few steps back and staring hard. “I know your face. I know _you_.”

Then, suddenly, the guard’s form shifted. Marked by Janus, Charelius realized, startling as he saw that this man was in fact a woman, one covered in brilliant blue scales, with a sleek red cap of hair and golden eyes like a serpent. _Beautiful,_ he thought in a daze, _but I do not know her. I would never have forgotten anyone like this._

When she spoke again, her voice shook, and was high and thin as a frightened child’s. “I think … I think that if my Mark had never manifested itself, that I might have looked – would I have looked like this?”

Her body shifted into one more familiar – fair skin, golden-brown hair that curled, the sort of soft woolen robe women had worn in Britannia, and a lovely face.

A familiar face. One he had not seen since she was a little girl, and they had clutched each other’s hands in the slave market until they were torn apart.

With a cry, Charelius rushed to his sister and took her in his arms, intending never to let go.

 

**

 

“’Roveca,’” he said many minutes later, as they sat together in the long, grand room where imperial receptions were held – a room no one would need this time of day, and where they might be alone. No lamps were lit; what light came in from outside shone at odd angles, through doorways, trapezoidal bits of illumination that shifted as the morning drew on. “That will take some getting used to.”

“And Charelius, too.” Her smile was crooked as they each shared the bleak joke, the wrecks Rome had made of their true names.

Yet he had not called her by her Briton name once, nor she by his. They were in Rome now and probably forever; time had changed more about them than their names, and they were too wise to pretend otherwise.

“You cannot believe in Sebastianus,” he murmured, squeezing her hand between his. “If you have been with him so long, then you know who and what he truly is.”

“I knew that before the end of my first week with him. And yet – ” Roveca looked up at the gilded ceiling, her eyes bright with tears. For now she held her more human face, perhaps out of sentimentality. Perhaps because she wanted at least one thing to be a little bit the same as it had been for them before. “You don’t know how it was when he found me.”

“Tell me, then.”

Roveca looked down at their clasped hands, and Charelius did not need his Mark to tell him she was thinking of when they had last held hands, and been torn apart. “I was taken to Massilia; the family that bought me there were humble, almost poor. They only owned one other slave besides me. I slept on a mat at the foot of their bed, in the two rooms they rented in an _insula_. They worked me hard, but I didn’t mind so much, because they worked hard themselves. Although I can’t say they were kind to me, they weren’t cruel, either. But then – the father died, and they ran low on money, and couldn’t afford even to feed me. The mother didn’t want to sell me, but in the end she had to. I’d just become a woman, so of course the highest bidder was a whorehouse.”

Charelius stroked her hands, heart aching at the thought. He had felt so grossly violated just by being forced to service Lucius Emelianus several nights a week. What must it have been like for his poor sister, turned over to man after man, day after day?

“Then my Mark of Janus came to me.” She brightened at the mere memory of it. “First I tried to use it to get away, of course, but they caught me. Still, my procurer was no fool. He knew a whore who could look like any woman a man dreamed of – well, he knew I was worth more than the few bronze coins he was charging. He sold me at a profit, to a much better class of establishment. Then my clients were fewer, and nicer, and more appreciative. Even with the _amissiona_ , I could be anyone they wanted: female or male, light or dark, old or young. The madam let me keep a little of my money, and sometimes the clients gave me gifts. Jewelry. Silk. One man even brought me a wig, though why he thought a shape-changer would need a wig, I can’t imagine. Anyway, I didn’t mind it as much after that.” Roveca bit her full lower lip before she said, quietly, “But I still minded.”

“I know,” Charelius said, though he felt the words were inadequate. “I had a master who used me – and it doesn’t compare, I know it can’t, but, still. I realize a little of what it must have been.”

“You too?” Her voice broke, and she shook her head, trying to cast off the emotion. “Of course. Everything good, everything beautiful – they find a way to use it all.”

He put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her against him, welcoming the weight of her head on his shoulder. They could not afford to break down, even now when they ought to have been able to console one another. In the palace of the emperor, there was so little time for gentleness, or love. “And Sebastianus?”

She sniffled, but when she spoke again, her voice was steady. “He was a client like any other, or so I thought. He said he had heard tales of what I could do, and invited me to show him. I wore a dozen faces for him, showed him a dozen different bodies, and asked him what he liked best. Sebastianus said … he said any man who looked on my gifts and saw only a toy was a fool. He said that I could do more. Be more. Sebastianus knew I was meant to be something beyond a prostitute. That night he bought me. That _hour_. And he never laid a finger on me, not even once. Instead he began training me for far more interesting work. More dangerous, too, but I didn’t mind. I would have done anything for him, then.”

Charelius understood. Even now, knowing and fearing Sebastianus as he did, he couldn’t help feeling a flash of gratitude toward the man. Whatever else Sebastianus had done, he had saved Roveca when Charelius could not.

And now, too, he understood something about Sebastianus that he had not known before. As cruel as Sebastianus could, he prioritized usefulness above all. His mind games were not mere amusements; they were ways of establishing ownership and control. Obviously he had gained Roveca’s loyalty on the night he bought her, and having done so, there had been no need to meddle with her further. In fact he had protected her, knowing this gave him the control he needed.

_If he thinks he controls me_ , Charelius mused, _then he will not harm me._

But that was something to consider later. For now, his sister mattered most.

“Listen to me,” Charelius said. “My Mark of Minerva tells me that you know, now, Sebastianus is not the savior you once believed him to be.”

Roveca nodded miserably. “Before, when he lashed out, I told myself it was understandable. The natural anger of the Marked, when we had to face a world that underestimated us. I thought when he became emperor, he would set things right. Instead – it’s as if power has poisoned him, Charelius. As if ruling the world isn’t enough. He wants more. He wants everyone. And there’s no purpose behind his actions any longer except his own gratification.”

He took a deep breath. “Would you turn against him?”

She lifted her head so that they looked each other in the eyes – then nodded. “If I had anywhere to turn.”

“You do now,” Charelius swore, taking his little sister in his arms.

So together, still in the early morning, they went to Aura and explained everything to her. Brother and sister held hands as Aura stepped outside and held her hands to the sky, summoning the clouds. As the light grayed and the wind picked up, Charelius couldn’t help smiling at the wonder of it all. “Ceres allows you to do all this,” he murmured.

Aura hesitated. The wind whipped her snow-white hair. “Ceres, and one other.”

“What do you mean?” Roveca said. “Were you Marked by more than one god?”

Charelius expected her to claim Isis, just as Curio and others sometimes claimed their native gods. Instead Aura tensed her hands, her eyes flashing as she whispered, “Behold.”

Lightning forked down from the sky, answering her.

“Jupiter,” Charelius whispered. “You are Marked by Jupiter. They said it was impossible.”

“Why he has chosen me, I cannot say.” Aura’s arms were outstretched to the strengthening winds, as though she might take flight. “But he has, and perhaps now he shows me his purpose, through you.”

Thunder boomed, deep and rolling, so that the ground itself seemed to rumble under their feet. Roveca turned to Charelius, smiling in open-mouthed disbelief. “Jupiter Optimus Maximus is on our side. And _only_ on our side. We have to win, now.”

In that moment Charelius could hardly think ahead as far as ultimate victory. His heart felt as though it could hold no more triumph, no greater joy. He stood there, his body still beautifully bruised by Erich’s touch, holding his sister’s hand for the first time in many years, and watched a blanket of snow settling down to keep them together, and safe, at last.

 

4.

 

Like most young ladies of her station, Emeliana had never entered an _insula_ , had never expected to so much as set foot inside one of the cramped apartment buildings where most common Romans lived. It wasn’t improper by any means, but she had never expected to know anyone who dwelled in one.

However, among her friends she could now count a very intelligent, very blue, charioteer.

“You see how the liquid changes when heated?” Bestius said excitedly, as he moved the little dish over the glowing coals. “The _amissiona_ breaks up far more than it does in the mixtures generally given out. I suspect that makes the mixture stronger.”

Junia sat next to Emeliana, the two of them in effect serving as chaperones for one another. They were at the rough-hewn bench in the small front room of Bestius’ home – where most people would eat or talk with their guests, she supposed, but Bestius had transformed his table with metal plates and a brazier and enough _amissiona_ that merely looking at it made her nervous.

Yet she found this place homier and more comfortable than she would have expected. Emeliana had thought that everyone who did not live in one of the fine houses on the fashionable hills dwelled in a slum; now she realized how blind she’d been. While slums existed in Rome, it seemed that many residences were like this: appealingly simple, even cozy. Instead of richly tiled mosaics, these floors were made of wood worn smooth; instead of elaborate paintings on the walls, Bestius had regular whitewashing, and decorated with a few terracotta figurines of the gods, especially his Minerva. _I like it here,_ she thought with some surprise.

Despite the winter chill, Bestius had not closed his door; this was for Junia’s protection, of course. Now the curious residents of the insula could peer inside and see for themselves that the famous charioteer of the Whites was very respectably entertaining two noblewomen, one of them a Vestal. Unsurprisingly, virtually every person had found an excuse to stroll through the small inner courtyard by now.  Did it matter if they listened? Probably not, Emeliana thought. It was hard enough to follow Bestius’ line of thought, even for those who knew his purpose.

“When the _amissiona_ dissolves completely, you believe it makes the drink stronger?” Junia ventured.

Bestius nodded. “We tried it on a volunteer – Cassius, a freedman who owns his own granary.”

“A freedman? And he still takes the _amissiona_?” Emeliana had thought only slaves took it.

“You underestimate the strength of _amissiona_ ’s hold. Apparently, once you begin taking it, it’s very difficult to stop – even painful. That’s why I’ve never tested this upon myself. As for Cassius, well, he’s Marked by Apollo Musagetes; his voice is tremendous. He can shatter pottery and glass with it.”

“Impressive,” Junia said.

“Indeed. But also fairly useless in a granary. So he’s never felt the need to wean himself totally from the _amissiona_ , luckily for us. Normally he’s taken down only to a less powerful shout; after drinking this, his voice was entirely human for several days. So I think we actually have the potency we seek.” With a flourish, Bestius tipped the bowl with the fully-dissolved mixture into a small glass vessel, which he then plugged with a cork. “Let me melt a bit of wax to seal it, and then we’ve got the first batch of our best weapon.”

Emeliana brightened – until she took a second look at the vessel. “That’s not much.”

“Enough to completely conceal one man’s Mark for a few days,” Bestius said, but he too looked doubtful. “Yet I admit, I would feel better if we were able to run another test before we tried to use this on Sebastianus.”

“And we’ll need more than one vial in any case,” Junia said softly. “We have to make sure the mixture can be concealed in food. We can’t be sure the first dose will get to him. According to what Charelius has told me, we might have to use some on his Marked generals as well. Otherwise, they’re likely to try to claim the throne for themselves, and seek revenge soon after.”  

Somehow Emeliana had not realized, until this moment, that she was actively plotting the assassination of the emperor. Chills ran along her spine as she thought of the histories she’d heard the orators tell, of traitors executed for their part in various conspiracies over the years. Some of these plots had succeeded, as the early deaths of Caligula and Domitian proved. But more had failed.

_Then we won’t fail_ , she thought – so loudly that Junia turned to her. They shared small, tense smiles. Emeliana shivered and told herself it was only the cold.

 

**

 

Two women walking along the street on an unseasonably cold day, the hoods of their cloaks white with softly falling snow: Not an exceptional sight. Anyone observant would recognize the white robes peeking from one of the cloaks, and catch a glimpse of red beneath her hood, and so would recognize that one of the women was a Vestal. This meant their errand had to be respectable. Worthy. Beyond reproach.

Yet as Scota stood half behind a tanner’s cart, observing them from a distance, he could not help the gnawing doubt he felt.

His errand was to attend one of the meetings of the Marked. This he had agreed to; there was nothing dishonorable in it, and besides, he was interested in meeting more of the Marked himself. However, the wretched turn in the weather had kept the group from gathering … at least, in public.

What business would Emeliana and a Vestal Virgin have in a humble insula? It had to be respectable – with the Vestal Junia there, it could hardly be anything else. And yet.

And yet.

His gut felt hollow, and the helmet on his head felt heavy. Scota realized that he wanted to run ahead and tell Emeliana that whatever this business was, she needed to get herself out of it, immediately. He could imagine his hands on his shoulders, pulling her close to make sure she heard, and repeating the words over and over until he knew she would listen. Until he knew she would be safe.

Instead he stood there, in the snow, trying to convince himself he would tell Alexander about this … but knowing he would not.

 

5.

 

“Can’t get used to it,” Lucan growled.

Erich looked over from his dinner – stew in a pot, steaming in the cold air – to where Lucan sat next to him. They were both hunched over their bowls, wearing cloaks as they huddled on the straw put down to keep their barracks floors from icing over, and Lucan wore his usual scowl. But he thought he detected mischief in Lucan’s gaze. “Get used to what?”

“You smiling.”

At that, Erich grinned again, proving Lucan’s point for him. Lucan groaned, as though disgusted, but Erich pointed out, “You smile more these days too.”

The only reply was a _hrmmph_ sound as Lucan dedicated himself anew to his dinner, but coming from him, that was as good as agreement. Merely seeing Marina again had buoyed Lucan’s spirits nearly as much as Charelius’ return had lifted Erich’s. As long as it snowed, they could at least pretend no day of reckoning would come, for any of them.

_Charelius._ Erich closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the night they’d spent together last week – already miracle enough for one lifetime, and yet soon, any day now, Charelius would return. Even knowing that he was alive would have been enough for Erich to feel as though the past two years had not been in vain; to actually have Charelius back in his life, his arms, his bed, and to know that Charelius’ heart still belonged to him alone …

“Get up!” shouted the new trainer. “Make yourselves decent! Get ready for inspection.”

Lucan and Erich exchanged doubtful glances. Inspection, after sundown? Nothing for it: They had to set aside their meals and go to the larger barracks, where they threw aside their cloaks and stood there shivering, in a long line, to be looked up and down. Maybe the trainer wanted to make sure they weren’t getting soft during their unexpected break.

Then the door opened, and Erich realized this inspection was not for the trainer.

Emperor Sebastianus walked in, surrounded by his guards. Even his winter cloak was trimmed with purple silk, Erich noted with contempt. At first he thought his self-control would be unequal to the task of remaining calm in this loathsome man’s presence – but he imagined how it had felt to be held by Charelius’ mind that day, to surrender all his impulses to that cool, unshakable will. As he did so, Erich felt himself relax slightly, and he was able to stare straight ahead, so that the emperor was merely a blur at the corner of his eye.

“All still fit. Still ready for action,” Sebastianus said. “Yet the only March blizzard in decades keeps us from our fun.”

Next to him, Erich heard Lucan breathe out sharply through his nose, almost a snort.

If Sebastianus heard it too, he ignored it. He continued walking down the line, trailing one fingertip along the chests of the assembled warriors. “Some of you will live through the fights to come, you know. For those of you who survive, there will be opportunities. Chances to serve your emperor, and Rome itself. These chances should not be thrown away lightly.”

As the emperor said this, he came to Erich and paused there, his finger just at the center of Erich’s chest. Erich could not help but look into Sebastianus’ face then, and see the amusement lurking just beneath his studiously bored expression. He imagined Charelius’ will around him, clenching him like a fist, and held utterly still.

“Of course some of you will continue to be obstinate. To believe that you should serve not even the gods who so benevolently Marked you.” Sebastianus’ finger tapped against Erich’s breastbone. “Those are the ones most certain to die in the arena. For the rest of you – this is an opportunity. A chance to reconsider your role in this world.”

Most of the Marked gladiators were part of Erich’s plan, and hated the emperor as much as he did. But they hated their slavery even more. Would some of them prove weak when the moment was at hand? Would they value their skin more than their pride?

_Hold on,_ he told himself. _For Charelius’ sake, you will wait, and you will hold on._

Sebastianus continued on to Lucan, perhaps hoping for the reaction he’d been unable to win from Erich. “And you. I have such plans for you. But the storm ruins everything.” The emperor glared out one of the windows, as though he could intimidate the falling snow.

“But you have other amusements waiting,” murmured one of his generals, who lurked just behind. Was it Avitus? The one with reddish skin, anyway. Erich forced himself not to glance sideways and acknowledge what was being said. “You promised us a turn at that slave boy of yours.”

“The one who refuses to save himself, even though his Mark of Minerva should tell him better.” Sebastianus smiled absently. “I suppose that would while away a long winter’s night.”

_Charelius. He means Charelius._

Too late, Erich understood Charelius’ hesitation when he said Sebastianus had not touched him. He had sensed this was coming, and kept it from Erich out of some misguided idea that Erich was the one that needed protecting. And this was why he had to hear these two men snickering about their plans to brutalize and rape the man Erich loved.

Charelius’ imagined grip around Erich fell away. No other man’s will could hold him back.

“I wouldn’t have thought an emperor was scared of the weather,” Erich said, his voice low and dark. “I would have thought a man Marked by Hercules could not be bested by a little snow falling from the sky.”

Sebastianus wheeled back toward him, eyes gleaming. “I want a crowd to see you die. Crowds don’t like the cold.”

“I would have thought the emperor could command the people to do as he wished in any regard – if his rule was strong.” Erich met Sebastianus’ gaze evenly. “I would have thought only the weakest ruler in history could not compel his subjects to endure a little cold.”

“Some men hold life cheap,” Sebastianus murmured, before turning to the trainer. “The games will be tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” The trainer looked outside at the falling snow.

“Tomorrow,” the emperor insisted. “They will come even if hailstones fall from the sky. They will fill the Colosseum – every seat! – and those who defy me will get what they deserve.”

Erich knew this meant incredible danger for Lucan, and for himself. He knew he was rushing Charelius’ plans to the point of possibly ruining them. He did not care.

All he knew was that Charelius was in danger. Erich would save him, even if the cost was his life.

_Tomorrow_ , he thought, staring at Sebastianus. _Tomorrow the emperor dies – or I do._

 


	9. Truth Unveiled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ROMAN NAMES:
> 
> Charles = Charelius  
> Erik = Erich/thonius or Magnus  
> Emma = Emeliana  
> Logan = Lucan  
> Marie/Rogue = Marina  
> Jean = Junia  
> Henry/Beast = Bestius  
> Alexander = Alexander, yay!  
> Kitty/Shadowcat = Catula  
> Scott = Scota  
> Sebastian = Sebastianus  
> Lilandra = Lilandra  
> Kurt/Nightcrawler = Curio  
> Raven = Roveca  
> Angel = Aquilina  
> Armando = Armin  
> Azazel = Avitus  
> Janos = Januarius  
> Bobby/Iceman = Iuventius  
> Ororo/Storm = Aura  
> Sean Cassidy/Banshee = Cassius
> 
> **

PART NINE

 

1.

 

For once, Charelius was glad to be forced to kneel in the presence of the emperor. The weakness of shock rippling through him would be invisible to Sebastianus, who paced back and forth in his agitation. “Tomorrow, lord and god? Despite the snow?”

“They will come, because their emperor commands it. They’ll come if they freeze. I don’t care if the gladiators fight through snowdrifts, but by the gods, they’ll fight.”

Surely not. If Charelius could slip out tonight, maybe he could convince Aura to whip up a storm of such severity that even Sebastianus’ rage would give way before it. Yet as he tested Sebastianus’ mind – feeling the volcanic fury barely restrained within – Charelius despaired of even that slight hope. Maybe nothing was capable of holding him back any longer.

“That wretched gladiator – Magnus – still he defies me. He called me a coward for bowing to the winds. We’ll see who’s bowed tomorrow. We’ll see who’s afraid.”

 _Erich, what were you thinking?_ Charelius was torn between anger and tears. He managed to keep himself still, though, remaining in his crouch near Sebastianus’ feet.

Before long, Sebastianus had summoned Avitus and Januarius to his side to finalize the plans for the many torments of the arena. Charelius hoped to remain – if he knew what to expect, he might be able to project helpful thoughts to Erich during his battle. But Sebastianus shooed him out. “This is not slaves’ work. Walk around my palace, look at my guards, and tell me which are loyal. Make me a list. Perhaps I’ll postpone your ‘fun’ one day for every traitor’s name you bring me.”

Charelius had no intention of informing on anyone, but he nodded, bowed, and began to hurry from the room. As he did so, though, he caught a stray flicker of dismay and disgust … from Januarius, of all people. Although he was one of Sebastianus’ most favored generals, he did not care for the emperor’s crass cruelty.

 _Sebastianus could not have always been like this,_ Charelius thought as he hurried away through the halls of the Domus Augustus. _Not to have won the loyalty of men such as Januarius and Alexander. Not to have persuaded my sister to follow him, even for a day._

As though he had summoned her, Roveca appeared with a broad smile on her face. Her simple white stola fluttered in the dark hallway, contrasting beautifully with her deep blue skin. “There you are. I was hoping we could catch up for a while. The kitchens have a bit of extra wine we can share, if you want.”

“I can’t tonight. Roveca, I must slip from the palace for a few hours.” He took her hands; although her smile faded, he sensed in her an understanding that tonight’s errand was vitally important. “I don’t think Sebastianus will ask for me, and I can cover my way in and out – but if you made yourself scarce for a bit, later we could claim to have been together, if need be.” The emperor did not and could know them to be brother and sister, of course, but let him come up with what interpretation he would.

“I can do better than that.” Roveca’s form shimmered, and Charelius startled when he realized he faced – himself, copied from hair to tunic so perfectly that he might have been standing before the finest mirror in the world. “I’ll walk through a few of the hallways. Everyone will see you right here where you belong.”

Charelius tightened his hands around hers. “If the emperor summons you – if he tries to get you alone in a room – you must reveal your true self, immediately. You _must_ promise.”

“Why? Has he threatened you?” In what seemed to be his own face, her yellow eyes flashed with concern. “Tell me.”

He shook his head. If she knew the danger to him, she might act rashly, and he could only compensate for one person’s recklessness at a time. “When you can, go to Marina. The games – they’re going to be tomorrow. She needs to be told, and warned. They’ll want her to kill Lucan, and I don’t know if there’s any way around it.”

“Poor Marina. She loves him so much.” Roveca’s form slipped back into her natural blue state. “She used to tell stories about him every night.”

“I know. I could feel it, sometimes, even with the _amissiona_.” She had burned with love for Lucan, a love he had once thought would die out like so many youthful passions. But their absence had deepened what they felt for each other, not destroyed it.

Charelius understood how that could be.

He made his way out of the palace, shivering despite his cloak, and hurried to the ludus. Although it was not yet very late, and several of the gladiators remained awake, Charelius drew a shade around himself that only Erich would be able to see through. One of the trainers was walking out through the gate, and believed it was his own idea to linger there a few moments, gate wide open behind him, before he shut and locked it.

When he reached the small room given to Erich, Charelius found him lying back on the bed, arms behind his head, as though he were perfectly at ease. He pushed himself upright, simultaneously astonished, happy and concerned. “You came. But how did you get in here?”

“They can’t see me. They won’t hear me.” Charelius went to Erich, sitting next to him on the straw mattress. “Erich, why did you taunt the emperor? He’s having the games _tomorrow_ – it’s too soon – ”

But Erich pressed two of his fingers against Charelius’ lips. “Every day we wait is a day you’re in danger.”

The terrible images flickering in Erich’s mind right now were too close to Sebastianus’ daydreams, and Charelius’ nightmares. How had Erich learned the truth? It didn’t matter, he realized, his heart sinking. Erich knew now, and the knowledge had angered him past the point of reason.  

Charelius clutched Erich’s hand in both of his. “I don’t care what happens to me. Not if it keeps you alive.”

“ _I_ care what happens to you.” Erich brought his other hand to Charelius’ face, his pale eyes agonized. “They were joking about raping you. _Joking._ It took everything I had not to kill Sebastianus then and there.”

“If you even could! Have you seen his power? How any force used against him is turned back on his attacker?”

Erich didn’t seem to hear this. “You knew about his plans for you. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you might react like this.” Charelius leaned forward so that his forehead rested against Erich’s shoulder. “He enjoys taunting me about it more than he’d enjoy the reality. I don’t think – he wouldn’t do it anytime soon. Sebastianus likes making me wait for it.”

The rage that flared within Erich then burned like black fire. “Sadistic dog. I can’t see his corpse fast enough.”

“How can you see it at all? How do you plan to defeat him? We’re going to do everything we can to help you, but with only hours to prepare – ” He clutched Erich closer to him. “When I believed you were dead, it nearly killed me. It feels – it feels as though you’re going to die again, and I can’t live through that.”

“Then you see. You see why I couldn’t live through knowing you were being brutalized for that sick monster’s amusement.”

“I could endure that! To save you, to protect you, I could endure it a hundred times. It wouldn’t hurt me nearly as much as losing you.”

Erich’s expression crumpled, from anger to naked vulnerability. “My life isn’t worth it.”

“It is to me,” Charelius whispered, and he pulled Erich’s mouth down to his for a kiss.

From the first touch they were wild. Erich almost tore at Charelius’ tunic in his haste to get it off; Charelius helped him, pushed up Erich’s own clothing until they were stripped bare for each other. Once again Erich removed his slave collar, freeing Charelius to Erich’s touch. Then Charelius pressed him back onto the mattress of straw, covering Erich’s body with his, covering every inch of him with kisses.

“Why must you belong to others?” Erich whispered between kisses down the center of Charelius’ chest. “You should be mine. Only mine. As I should be only yours.”

Charelius breathed out, a sigh that was nearly a sob. “You are. You belong to me, and I to you.”

Erich’s cock – long and thick, so strangely bare of its foreskin, heavy in his palm – Charelius, kissed the tip, ran his tongue along each ridge and vein, then opened his mouth. This unspeakable act was one of the things he had missed; the thought of doing this for any other man was humiliation, but to do this for Erich was bliss. The deep, rippling moan he won from Erich spurred him to suck harder and faster, urging Erich on.

 _But I will have him_ , Charelius decided, even as he splayed his hands against Erich’s belly, feeling the muscles there clench in excitement. _I will have him completely. Sebastianus’ men won’t be the next to touch me. Only Erich. I belong to him and him alone._

He pulled his mouth away, Erich’s cock slipping from his lips with a soft, wet sound. Although Erich groaned in protest, Charelius simply took him in hand as he whispered, “Do you have oil?”

Erich nodded. “We were given some – to – to wash – ”

“Already breathless.” Charelius smiled, triumphant. “Now take my breath away.”

He found the oil in its small jar beside the bed and poured a trickle onto Erich’s hand. Then Erich rolled him over – so fast that Charelius gasped – before sliding one of his fingers inside.

It had been so long since he’d been taken in this way. Charelius’ memories of this act were stained by thoughts of Lucius Emelianus, and fears of the emperor’s men. Never would it represent his ultimate pleasure, no matter how good it felt. Instead it meant – ownership. Utter surrender. If he gave that to Erich freely, then it meant more than it ever could when it was taken by force. So Charelius gave it. Gave himself.

He whispered, “Now.”

Erich slid so that his feet were on the floor, then gripped Charelius by the hips and pulled him down so that his ass was at the very edge of the mattress. Then he felt the firm head of Erich’s cock pushing against him, saw Erich staring down raptly at the sight of Charelius exposed and open and ready – so ready –

The first thrust was pain and pleasure combined, a burn that made Charelius cry out. Erich went still as his eyes searched Charelius’, but Charelius smiled back, slow and hot. As Erich returned the smile, he pushed in further, further again, so deep that Charelius felt as though he would be split in two, and yet he wanted it, wanted this and more.

Erich groaned from the depths of his chest, as he finally thrust in all the way. Even as he began to pump into Charelius, every moment stoking fire inside him, Erich took hold of Charelius’ cock. The firm grip turned into Charelius’ whole world.

 _I’m his,_ he thought as he sprawled in front of Erich, feeling the pressure filling him up as Erich moved faster. _Only his._

Charelius bucked against Erich, matching his thrusts as well as he could. Erich responded by thrusting faster and deeper, which brought Charelius close to the edge. And Erich must have seen that, because his fist began squeezing the head of Charelius’ cock, the extra pulse and pressure more than he could stand. He came, milky white spurting hot through Erich’s fingers, slumping back onto the bed.

Erich pumped him harder then, in a race to catch up. Through the spent daze of pleasure, Charelius looked up at Erich – the ripple of his abdominal muscles, the dark hair around his cock just visible above their joining, the way his head hung down as though he were giving all his strength to this, only to this – and he thought, _This man is mine._

_He should be mine._

Then heat filled him up, and Erich went still and tense, his whole body caught in the pleasure of it. Charelius felt so powerful, so strong.

He would not let Sebastianus break him, no matter what occurred. He would not let anything take him away from Erich again. Not even death.

Afterward they lay together for a while, Erich’s head pillowed on Charelius’ chest, one of his legs between Charelius’ thighs. His body was so much larger, so much more muscled, and yet there was a fragility to him, too – the incredible slimness of his waist, and the joints of his elongated arms and legs. The vulnerability within this powerful man: It was just one of the contradictions within Erich that made him so impossible, and yet so easy to love. Charelius stroked his hair and tried to imagine seeing him fight for his life again in the arena; the terror and pain had nearly killed him before he even met Erich. How much worse would it be to bear tomorrow? But bear it he would.

“I can’t stay,” Charelius whispered.

Erich tensed. “Does he want you back at the palace? Don’t leave.”

“It’s not that.” He kissed Erich’s forehead. “You’re going into the ring tomorrow. If we can be ready to act, then we must act. But first I have to find out whether we can be ready.”

“I never meant for you to waste your chances on me. I can win tomorrow, no matter what he throws at me.“

“They’re going to turn Marina on Lucan.” Charelius stroked Erich’s arm and chest, hoping to smooth past any hint of blame or regret; they had to be beyond that now. “You might be able to win yourself more time, but not for anyone else.”

Erich swore under his breath. After a few moments of silence, he finally said, “Lucan used to want to die. He wanted it more than anything else. But ever since he first saw Marina again, everything’s changed for him.”

“Just like it changed for me, when I found out you were alive.”

“And for me, when I saw you that day.” Erich rolled onto one elbow, the better to look down at Charelius’ face. “You’ll find a way, I know it.”

“Yes,” Charelius said, wishing with all his strength that it would be true.

 

2.

 

Sex simply _had_ to be more fun than that.

So Emeliana thought as she lay in her bed, body still agreeably tender after Alexander’s visit. She liked being held and kissed by him – and time had only made him more handsome – but everything seemed to end so quickly, just when she felt like it was getting interesting. Then he was off to his own bedchamber, while she needed blankets to keep warm on a winter’s night.

With a _hmmph_ , she scooted further down into her blankets … which was when a voice inside her said, _Emeliana?_

She sat upright, then clutched the blanket around her for warmth. As peculiar as it was to be spoken to within her own mind, Emeliana felt as though she knew the “voice.” After a moment’s hesitation, she whispered, “Charelius?”

_Thank goodness. I wasn’t sure whether I could contact you like this. The games are going to be held tomorrow, regardless of the weather. That means we must act quickly, domina. I’m on my way to Aura now, to see if she can’t warm things up a bit. How much of the stronger amissiona do we have?_

Could she create a voice within her own head? Unsure, Emeliana whispered her reply. “A few vials. Three or four, I think.”

 _That’s not much – but if we can dose Sebastianus, it will be enough._ There was a moment’s “silence,” during which it seemed to Emeliana she could sense Charelius shivering in the cold, working to find his way around in the dark. _Can you possibly go to Bestius and get all the vials he has? I know it’s not easy for you to get there at night, but you’re closer, and I don’t think I can reach him and Aura in the same evening._

The thought of going to an unfamiliar neighborhood in the dead of night intimidated Emeliana, but she realized the importance of what Charelius was asking. Going after Sebastianus tomorrow – it was too soon, but perhaps the only time they had. She would have to awaken a couple of the male slaves and make them accompany her, poor things. Nothing else for it. “I can do it. I’ll leave right now.”

_Thank you, domina._

“You don’t owe me any thanks. I’m the one who owes you.”

_If we manage this – I’ll call it even._

Emeliana could take no comfort in this. “Don’t joke.” Her whisper was shaky. “You know what I did to you … it’s not something we can put on scales, to be measured and weighed.”

A brief silence before the voice in her head replied: _No, domina. But we are both caught in a web far larger than we are, spun before we were ever born. You as much as I. We stand together now, and that’s all that matters._

She imagined she could even see Charelius smile, and found herself smiling back. How humbling, to think of herself as forgiven.

Quickly she rose and put on four or five tunics, then two _stolae_ , layering them as warmly as she could. And where were her socks? Her sandals would be unbearable without those. Alexander had told her tales of the barbarians in Germany who wore different clothes in winter than in summer, garments made of leather and fur; everyone else in Rome might think that was bizarre, but as she contemplated going out on a snowy night, Emeliana suspected the barbarians had the right idea.

But wait –

She was immune to so many other things when she wore her Mark of Juno Moneta. What about the cold?

Emeliana shimmered into her diamond form – and the chill immediately went away. With a laugh, she realized that as she had once neglected her Mark of Minerva but now valued it, she was now forgetting her Mark of Juno. But it had its advantages too. From now on she needed to embrace all that the gods had given her.

Her Mark of Juno rendered her nearly invulnerable, so far as she could tell. Did she need to awaken the slaves? Probably so, she decided with regret. Any trouble whatsoever would attract attention they couldn’t afford; best to avoid it entirely. And the slaves liked her well enough that she could be sure they would keep her secrets. Resolutely she strode from her room … and nearly bumped into Scota.

She gasped, then tried to act as though she were simply going to use one of the pots. “Oh, Scota. Not sleeping well?”

“Who were you talking to?” Scota’s jawline tensed, and she could sense the intensity of his gaze behind the red glass. He had never seen her in her diamond form before, but the sight did not appear to unnerve him. Perhaps, to his gaze given by Mars, she didn’t look so different. “I heard your voice.”

Emeliana tried to laugh. “I talk in my sleep, sometimes.”

“Please don’t lie to me,” he said quietly. “Not to me.”

She could have. She should have. Her Mark of Minerva would have allowed her to make him believe it. And once before, Emeliana had revealed Charelius’ secret – and the result had been horrible.

Yet Scota was a different kind of man from her father, or from Alexander. Emeliana had to believe that.

“I go on an errand on behalf of the Marked,” she said very quietly. “I do not betray my duties as Alexander’s wife.”

Scota jerked back; whatever it was he’d suspected her of, he hadn’t thought she was going to meet a lover. His voice was wary as he replied, “Alexander would say Sebastianus works on behalf of the Marked, and any other help should be unnecessary.”

“Do you agree?”

After a long moment of silence, Scota said, “No more than you do.”

Hope caught fire inside her, and had the situation been any less dire, she would have smiled. “Then let me go.” Emeliana rested her hand on his forearm, hating that the touch was so distant through her Mark of Juno Moneta. She wanted to know what it really felt like to touch Scota … just once.

“I’ll come with you. It’s dangerous, at this time of night.”

“I’ll have a couple of the slaves with me. Besides, when I’m like this, I’m nearly indestructible.”

“Still. I should be with you, Emeliana.”

The words meant more than they should have. She shook her head, knowing she had to be firm. This errand was risky, and part of a conspiracy against the emperor. If everything went wrong, Emeliana wanted to think that Scota at least might escape unscathed. “Stay here,” she said. “If Alexander awoke and we were both gone – well. We shouldn’t let that happen.”

Scota sighed. She knew he was looking deeply into her eyes, and she wished his helmet would let her truly look back. Finally he said, “Indestructible?”

Emeliana promised, “Stronger than anyone knows.”

“Yes. I think that must be true.”

She shivered even though she could not feel the cold.

 So she went on her errand. Bestius, awakened in the dead of night, nonetheless roused himself sufficiently to provide her with more vials of the precious _amissiona_ fluid. Emeliana would keep one herself and attempt to put it in Sebastianus’ wine tomorrow at the games; he had a taster, of course, but as _amissiona_ wasn’t poisonous, the taster would be unaffected.

As for the others – she’d try to smuggle one directly to Charelius, who would have his own opportunities to drug the emperor. It might not be a bad idea to keep a few in storage in case they failed tomorrow.

But she knew the gladiator condemned in the games was none other than Charelius’ beloved Erichthonius. That Marina would be forced to try to kill Lucan. Who knew what other sufferings Sebstianus might devise if he were given enough?

No. No more time. Tomorrow, they had to succeed, or else.

 

3\. 

 

The skies had “miraculously” cleared just before dawn, and the temperature was warm enough that most of the ice had melted. Although the floor of the Colosseum was a strange slushy mix of icewater and sand, the conditions would allow for the games.

No awnings were drawn. Whatever heat and light could reach the spectators would be needed. Criers had walked the streets since shortly after dawn, announcing to all that every man, woman and child who came to the Colosseum that day would receive bounty from the emperor. Precisely what that meant – well, near as Lucan could figure, Sebastianus was probably still working that out himself.

For him, this was one thing only: The day he would finally die.

_Just when I had something to live for._

The gladiators were marched from the ludus to the arena at midmorning. Lucan and Erich hung together, as usual. To judge by the faraway, almost fevered gleam in Erich’s eyes, he dreamed that today would be his revenge and his glory. Lucan hoped he was right, but he also suspected that whatever the outcome of Erich’s fight might be, Lucan wouldn’t be around to see it.

When he said as much, Erich insisted, “If I get my chance before you go on, trust me – the Colosseum will have already seen its last execution.”

“The executions always go before the fights, dumbass.” Lucan said this almost with affection. Maybe he and Erich weren’t true intimates – but they had become friends these past two years, despite themselves. “Nice knowing you, all right? And look out for Marina if you get the chance. She … she needs somebody.”

Erich obviously wanted to argue further, but they were coming very near the arena now, and the crowds gathering nearby gaped and gawked. “I will. If she’ll let me.”

That made Lucan smile despite himself. Marina was a feisty little thing when she wanted to be, which was pretty much always.

They were herded into the pens at the Colosseum – _like fucking cattle_ , Lucan thought, not for the first time – and made to wait their turns. He was the day’s only execution; as he had predicted, the executions were set for early in the games. The attendants stripped him down to a simple loincloth and oiled his skin, the better to show him off to the viewers in the highest seats in the amphitheater.

(And people were up there, too. Whether they were motivated by greed and potential rewards, or simple fear of the emperor’s wrath, the Romans had flocked to the Colosseum despite the lingering chill in the air. The enormous arena was filled down to the last seat.)

Lucan didn’t care who was there to watch. He didn’t even care that it was the end, telling himself quietly, _Time to die._ His only regrets were that he would never see Gaul again, and that his death would give pain to Marina.

They brought her to the pen just before they were to go on. She wore the black silk stola and fern-and-narcissus wreath Lucan knew so well, but as she walked toward him, her dark eyes welled with tears. “Hey,” he said. “Don’t lose it now.”

“I can’t do this,” Marina said, shaking her head. “I’ll refuse.”

“The hell you can’t.” His voice was rough now; Lucan was willing to make his words hurt if he had to. “You refuse, they’ll just kill you instead. And that exchange is _not_ okay with me. You got that?”

“What if it’s okay with me?”

“You don’t get a vote.”

“That’s not fair!”

Lucan laughed. “Since when was ‘fair’ a big part of our lives? You do what you’ve got to, Marina. All right? I’m sick of this. I’m ready. You’ve got a whole life ahead of you. I want you to have that.”

“What kind of life is this?”

He couldn’t let her fall apart now; the last thing Lucan could do for Marina was to get her through today. “You know Erich and Charelius have their plans. They might not succeed in time for me, but you, kid? You’ve got all the time in the world.”

Marina took a step forward – shit, when did she become beautiful? So beautiful it hurt to look at her? She laughed, a broken sound. “I guess so. Nothing’s eternal but death, and that’s what I am. Death. Marked by Pluto.”

“I don’t think that’s right.”

She frowned at him, as though he’d stopped making sense. The thing was, it had taken Lucan a long time to work this out. He hadn’t known it until months after he and Marina had been taken away from each other, and he’d never have another chance to explain. He needed to get it straight.

Slowly, he said, “Pluto’s about the underworld. Only the underworld, right? Only the dead. He doesn’t have anything to do with life, or youth – anything like that. Except for his wife, Proserpina. She’s the one who goes back and forth between the worlds, and she’s the one who brings the spring. Warmth and sunlight and everything that’s good. So I think maybe you were Marked by her instead. Marked by Proserpina. Because you’re bound to death but you’re also completely alive.” Lucan had forgotten what life truly was, until he glimpsed it again in her. She had given him back himself, for a short but precious time before his end. “You’re the springtime, Marina. Never forget that.”

Tears streamed down Marina’s face, and she shook her head – not denying what he’d said, but telling him she had no words. Lucan risked a brief touch, just two fingertips brushing along her cheek; his skin crackled, a pain like frost, in the one instant before he pulled his hand away.

At least she’d have one touch to remember. It was all he had to give.

 

**

 

Sitting in the imperial box was of course a sign of extraordinary favor, an opportunity given only to the most honored, the most privileged. All it meant to Emeliana any longer was a chance to slip something into Sebastianus’ drink.

She had taken the chair nearest the center – nearest the imperial throne – leaving Alexander and Scota to fend for themselves on the outskirts. Alexander gave her a look: not angry at her presumption, but confused by it. By now her husband had at least perceived that Emeliana was not so fond of the emperor as he was, so he didn’t understand her desire to be closer to him. Hopefully he would not put the facts together after Sebastianus drank the strong _amissiona_. If all went according to plan, Emeliana thought, she would never face the repercussions of this act, the greatest crime a Roman could commit – conspiring against an emperor.

If it did not go according to plan –

_You mustn’t think of failure. Only success._

Yet her Roman heart quailed at the thought of being responsible for the defeat and – yes, time to admit it – the death of the emperor. Everyone knew that the emperors enjoyed divine favor, a Marked emperor doubly so, surely. If some of the gods sided with them, and helped them overcome Sebastianus, then success would be theirs – but other gods, the gods who had brought Sebastianus this far, would be angered to the point of retribution.

There would be a terrible price to pay for this. Emeliana knew it as surely as she knew anything in this world. Yet she also knew she would not turn back.

The vial was cool in her _stola_ , nestled against her skin, just above her belt, as Sebastianus entered the arena. (Charelius was a few steps behind him, of interest to no one but her; he gave Emeliana a look, and she shook her head very slightly – _no, not yet_.) From the crowd an enormous roar rose up, deafening, making the very stone of the Colosseum vibrate beneath Emeliana’s feet. For a moment Sebastianus stood there regarding them, his rich purple robes and golden wreath brilliant in the sun, before he raised his hand to answer their salute.

How they howled for him. Emeliana knew they cheered the position more than the man, that the shouts were fueled as much by fear as by love. Yet she shivered to imagine how they would cry out when Sebastianus fell.

 

**

 

Within Marina survived small slivers of the dead.

Their _geniuses_ faded within her as time went on, but never entirely went away. Once in a while, she would consider a memory at length before realizing it wasn’t her own; other memories were more obviously foreign – holding her child, fighting in battle as a soldier, or even the act of sex, performed by bodies both female and male. Those she killed lived on, somehow, in her.

 _So I’ll always have Lucan with me,_ she thought as she walked into the arena, limbs tremulous and weak. _His memories will be my memories. We’ll become one, in a way._

Cold comfort that it was, she clung to it. Only the thought of Lucan continuing to live within her allowed Marina to imagine continuing to live after he had died.

After she had killed him.

By now she knew every step up the platform, the weight of the wreath on her hair. Each step of this terrible ritual was horribly familiar to her, and yet nothing had braced her for the moment Lucan was led onto the sands.

The crowd murmured and rustled. Lucan’s invulnerability to injury was legendary by now – as much as her deathly touch. To the audience, what was happening was a contest between Diana and Pluto. To her … what word could sum up the way she felt as Lucan walked toward her, his hands bound behind his back, his gaze steady, never even hesitating?

 _He’s ready to die,_ Marina thought. _No. He wants me to believe he is. Even now he’s thinking of me._

Although she’d held back the tears as long as she could, when the guards pushed Lucan to his knees in front of her, Marina began to cry again. Lucan’s face changed as he saw her – all the compassion he’d tried to hide before was laid bare to her. In some ways, he was becoming the man he’d been before his capture by the Romans, regaining himself just at the moment he would die.

 _Or not. You don’t know. His Mark might be even stronger than yours._ Yet no matter how desperately Marina tried to convince herself of this, she couldn’t believe it. Pluto had worked within her too long and too powerfully for her to think of her touch as anything but poison.

It was time. Marina looked up at the imperial box – past Sebastianus, at Charelius. He stood there in his blue-and-gold tunic, shivering in the cold, and gave the smallest shake of his head, _No._

Sebastianus had not yet been given the _amissiona._ Nobody could move against the emperor before that, at least nobody except Erich.

They had no way out.

Marina stepped forward. Quietly, Lucan said, “Do it.”

She nodded, but her hands wouldn’t move.

He leaned his head forward, seeking her touch – she had been that cruel, to make him party to his own death. Lucan said, “Let me feel you touch me. Just one time.”

With a sob, Marina embraced him, and he closed his eyes in pleasure for the one moment before it became pain. Then his eyes flew open, and she felt his pain (it had taken her so long to understand the pain was theirs, not hers) and everything that Lucan knew, everything that he was, flowed into her.

_The forests of Gaul, with firs that stretched into the pale sky and snow knee-deep. The crisp cool air creeping in at the collar of a robe of sable pelts._

_Running across the spring grass, the scent of a bear newly awakened from hibernation – knowing the bear’s hunger made the pursuit dangerous, but pursuing all the same for the sheer joy of the chase. Leaping into the trees and clinging to them with claws that jutted from the skin, feeling as free as any beast._

_The long terrible march to Rome as a captive, a yoke bearing down on blistered shoulders, the bitter taste of amissiona forced down every night._

_And then, a girl._

(Marina saw herself through his eyes, small and young and frightened, sitting on a bench across the ludus. Could he see within her at the moment? Could he see himself as he had appeared to her – as her only friend and hope?)

_Lying awake at night, watching her sleep, taking comfort from the sound of her breathing._

_Watching her cheer madly for Bestius at the chariot races, taking delight in seeing her carefree and having fun for once._

_Realizing that he longed for her when she wasn’t there, hating himself for being such a fool as to let himself care. Cruel words that had pushed her away –_

_And then long hours on a voyage east, in the hold of a ship, with nothing but the knowledge that she was the only woman he had ever loved._

(Lucan didn’t scream. Never once did he scream. All the others did, because the pain was too much. But even as he shuddered in her grasp, even as his skin turned gray and cracked like parched desert earth, Lucan remained silent, stoic to the very end.)

_Seeing her again at the Domus Augustus, the sheer joy of recognizing her face and her smile –_

That thought was Lucan’s last.

Marina cried out as Lucan slumped to the ground in front of her. His anger mingled with her own, and her cry turned into a scream of rage. But there was nothing to be done as the guards picked up Lucan’s limp arms, preparing to drag him across the sand.

“Wait!” Sebastianus’ voice rang out. Marina startled; apparently, during the execution, he had left the imperial box. Now he walked into the arena trailed by Through the blur of her tears, she saw him go to Lucan’s body … to satisfy himself, she figured. To triumph over the dead.

 _I oughta grab him next,_ she thought, her spirit half Lucan’s and half her own.

But even as Sebastianus knelt by Lucan’s body, one of Lucan’s fingers twitched.

“He’s still alive,” she whispered, a smile spreading across her face. Diana and Apollo were stronger than Pluto after all.

Sebastianus whirled on her. His eyes were ablaze. “The one man I most need you to kill, and you can’t even manage that,” he growled. He snatched the metal cuffs from one of the guards and swung them hard against Marina’s face. She cried out and fell to her knees as she felt hot blood stream down her cheek. “Get her out of here. Both of them. Do it! You trainers, attend me.”

The guards hurried her away, but even as Marina crawled to her feet, she realized she didn’t feel as weakened by the blow as she should have. She’d been dizzy, but only for a moment. Blood was drying on her skin, yet she didn’t feel any more blood flowing.

In fact, the cut didn’t hurt at all.

As soon as Marina was in the chambers within the Colosseum, invisible to the crowd and no longer of notice to the guards, she put one hand to the wound – or the place where the wound had been. The skin had healed completely, in an instant.

_Lucan’s Mark. I didn’t just gain his genius; I also took his Mark!_

In alarm, she looked at Lucan where he lay unconscious. By now, however, he was visibly breathing, and the deep gash-like marks in his skin had begun to come together. It would take him a long time to heal from this, but heal he would. Marina had simply … borrowed his Mark of Apollo for a while.

 _Sebastianus can’t hurt me_ , she thought as she looked up at the imperial box. _Not now._

 

**

 

As the crowd murmured and talked, unsure whether the mighty Lucan had finally fallen, a voice whispered in Emeliana’s mind: _Do it now. I can keep them from seeing if you do it right now, while they’re distracted._

Immediately she rose and went to the emperor’s chair; on a small table sat his wine goblet, still halfway full. Emeliana quickly emptied the vial of stronger _amissiona_ into the wine and went back to her seat. She needed to dispose of the vial – they might all well be searched before this day was done – but better to do that during the chaos of his fall. The glass was so thin that she might even be able to crush it underfoot.

Emeliana shot Charelius a look, which meant, _You couldn’t have distracted everyone before?_ His Mark of Minerva let him understand, and she heard him in her head again, amused despite the tension: _Do you have any idea how many people are in this Colosseum?_

Now what? She wasn’t privy to any further steps in the plan to assassinate Sebastianus. They had decided this early on. Each person had to know his or her role, and not much else. Only Charelius, Junia and perhaps Charelius’ gladiator knew it all. Bestius might have guessed. Emeliana only knew her work was done. From now on she could only wait.

“Emeliana?” Scota leaned closer to her. She could sense how much he wanted to ask about what she’d done last night – and yet he said nothing. The trust he’d given staggered her. “Is everything – well?”

“We shall see.” Emeliana tried to smile for him. She must not have done a very good job, however, because for one moment he took her hand and gave it the smallest, most comforting squeeze.

Alexander saw nothing. He was too busy searching for Sebastianus. “He ought to have made it back by now.”

“Perhaps he’s inspecting the elements for the most important bout.” Scota spoke evenly, his expression betraying nothing, but Emeliana could sense his disgust. “What did you recommend for the death of Magnus? What manner of spectacle are we about to endure?”

“I had suggested pitting him against animals and men simultaneously,” Alexander said. In fairness, Emeliana had to admit that her husband seemed little more pleased with what was happening in the arena today than she or Scota did. Whenever he tried to look at Sebastianus straight-on – without his longing for a father, without any sense of vindication about his Mark – Alexander did not like what he saw. “But the weather didn’t allow us to bring anything in. There’s not a leopard in the Empire anywhere closer than Memphis.”  

Charelius paled. He whispered, “Oh, Jupiter Best and Greatest. This cannot be.”

Ignoring every rule of etiquette that would demand her to ignore a male slave not her own, Emeliana turned to him. “What is it? What’s happening?”

Words would not come out of Charelius’ mouth. It was Scota who said, “He is in the arena.”

Emeliana whirled around, wondering why Scota would sound so grave, so unnerved, about Erichthonius being brought onto the field of combat. But when she looked down, she did not see Erich.

She saw Sebastianus himself, leather armor strapped on over his purple tunic, wielding the sword.

 

**

 

Erich could only stare as Sebastianus stood in the center of the arena, sword in hand. The metal sang to him, but he could hardly hear it over the rushing of blood in his ears. Within him was an emotion too fierce to be joy, too beautiful to be hate.

 _He’s walking out here for me to kill. He’s giving me the chance._ _The permission._ _His pride is the final weapon I required._

At a great distance, Erich heard the announcer shout the name Magnus through his megaphone. He strode out in front of the thousands packed into the arena – none of whom seemed to know how to react. There was applause, but it was muted; most of the rumble from the throng was made up of whispers, murmurs and dismay.

“You meet me as an equal,” Erich said as he took his place.

Sebastianus smiled. “Do I meet a fly as an equal when I swat it?”

“You even brought me metal, to shape into your death.”

“Bring me your blows, Magnus.” Sebastianus assumed battle stance. “See what I make of them.”

 

**

 

Charelius felt dizzy with terror. He’d always known Erich underestimated Sebastianus’ personal power, but he had never understood the depth of Sebastianus’ grudge until now, when the emperor had lowered himself to walk into the arena like any slave gladiator.

Those sitting in the imperial box were nearly as aghast as he was. Alexander attempted to make excuses. “He is not the first. We are told that Nero fought as a gladiator.”

“ _He_ ended well,” Scota said dryly, an allusion to Nero’s overthrow and suicide.

Emeliana’s eyes sought Charelius’, and through his Mark he could hear her say, _Now what do we do?_

 _Save the wine if you can,_ he sent back. Surely not even the most dedicated food taster would be paying any attention at this moment. _We only have so much of the stronger amissiona. We must not waste it._

Already Charelius was trying to think of future attempts and other chances. But what would those chances be worth to him, if Erich were killed today? Less than nothing.

_This is not only about him. It is not only about you._

So he reminded himself, but his heart saw Erich going into battle and would not believe that anything could be more important than that one life. That one heart. 

 

**

 

The horn blew, and the battle was on.

Erich readied himself for an attack – hasty, he’d assumed, and as ill-judged as Sebastianus’ decision to enter the arena. However, the emperor surprised him, circling Erich carefully as his narrow eyes weighed Erich top to bottom: his muscles, his stance, even his footing. This man might be plumping himself on figs and wine in the Domus Augustus these days, but once upon a time – not even so long ago – he had been a warrior.

Yet Erich knew he was a warrior too, and perhaps the best who had ever entered the arena. He was not afraid.

Deliberately he refused to look up at where Charelius stood. He imagined that he could feel the depth of Charelius’ fear – his Mark of Minerva reaching out to Erich even now – or maybe that was only his worry about Charelius. Although he hated to put him through the torment of watching this battle, Erich comforted himself with the knowledge that this would be the last time. When this was over, he would walk straight into Charelius’ arms and never let him go.

“Are we fighting or dancing, Magnus?” Sebastianus’ eyes danced with glee. “Or do you leave the first blow to your lord and god?”

Instead of answering, Erich lunged.

The blade just missed Sebastianus. Throughout the arena, screams rang out. Sebastianus’ sword slashed toward Erich, but it was easily parried with the shield. Erich reached out with his Mark of Vulcan, took hold of the blade and pried it loose. When it zoomed out of the emperor’s hand and began hovering behind Erich, the roar from the crowd grew.

_They see, now, that he can lose. That he can fall. They begin to have hope._

Erich smiled.

 

**

 

Charelius could hardly bear to look away from Erich, but he had to. So many others were calling to him, and it had never been more important to answer.

 _However this ends, the result will be chaos._ Junia stood on the Vestals platform, seemingly calm; even her veil did not flutter in the cold wind. _Riots, probably._

 _Go below_ , Charelius sent back to her _. Make ready to help those from the arena if they can escape._

Only a Vestal Virgin could get away with walking out of the Colosseum in the middle of the emperor’s fight. Junia slipped away; it seemed that nobody else even noticed.

 _What should we do?_ That was Curio, sitting next to Armin very close to the arena. From far above, Charelius could sense Aquilina up in the women’s section, her just-healed wings fluttering with fear and impatience. He glanced sideways at a black-bearded praetorian who was, in fact, Roveca – in whose mind he could sense the readiness to help him in any way possible.

To all of them he sent back: _Be ready for anything._

If Erich won, the result would be turmoil.

If Erich lost – then Charelius intended to show Sebastianus just what he had done, when he failed to reckon with all the others who were Marked.

 

**

 

 _Now,_ Erich thought. _Strike now._

He swung his sword forward, and it slammed into Sebastianus’ shield – but then Sebastianus lunged into his shield, and the force came back on Erich a dozen times strong. As Erich stumbled, arm aching in the shoulder joint, the crowd’s howling turned frenzied.  

“They see, now,” Sebastianus said, swaggering forward. “I told you once the nature of my Mark of Hercules. Why did you not believe?”

Erich had sensed Sebastianus’ strength before, but he had been dosed so heavily with _amissiona_ – only days after he’d believed Charelius sold to the mines – that he’d assumed the emperor’s power was nothing his own Mark could not overcome. Only now did he realize he had underestimated just what Sebastianus could do.

For every blow, Sebastianus only became stronger.

The emperor struck out with his shield, slamming it into Erich’s so powerfully that it took all Erich’s skill not to tumble down on his back in the sand.

He struck back; human nature demanded it. But that only made Sebastianus stronger. With each swing of his shield, he forced Erich further back.

_Weapons – I need weapons._

Erich wrapped his Mark around Sebastianus’ sword – still hovering behind him – then sent it zooming around to pierce the man between the shoulder blades. But the emperor swung around just in time to catch it with his shield, then came back at Erich with all the strength of that sword’s blow.

How was he to kill a man without striking him?

The answer came immediately: _Take his power._

And in Sebastianus’ case, his power was far more than his Mark.

Erich reached out for the sword again – never dropping his own – and split it into a few dozen small barbed darts. Then he sent those darts flying in every direction, exploding outward … into the skull of every praetorian and trainer standing around the arena. They didn’t even have time to scream.

As the dead guards began to fall, shouts rose in the Colosseum. The people knew now that the emperor was on his own.

To judge by Sebastianus’ pale face, he knew it too  -- and he didn’t like it.

Erich grinned.

 

**

 

 _Now_ , Charelius thought to every Marked person in the Colosseum. _Now!_

 

**

 

With a swirl of blue smoke, Curio appeared in the arena, his tail curling around to lash Sebastianus like a whip. Before the emperor could turn on him, Curio was up in the imperial box, shoving Alexander down to the ground.

Erich wanted to shout a warning to Curio, glad though he was for the help. But then a woman soared from the higher stands – her wings of Mercury glittering on her back – swooped down, and breathed fire directly at Sebastianus. Although the emperor dodged it, the smirk had been erased from his face.

A few others vaulted over the stands into the arena, all of them Marked, Erich thought. How many of them were part of the Brotherhood he had helped bring into being these past years? How many were Charelius’ friends, who had trained together for just such a moment? And at least some of them were Marked citizens like any others, who had needed only this example to rise.

 _It has begun,_ Erich thought with satisfaction. _At last it has begun._

 

**

 

_The wine, get the wine!_

Emeliana dove for the flask, seizing it and tucking it in next to her belt. She need not have hurried, though – no one in the entire arena was looking at her.

As she began to dash toward one of the exits, however, a strong hand caught her at her elbow. Scota whispered urgently, “What’s happening?”

He knew she understood part of this. Could she also make him believe this had already spun beyond anything she’d imagined? “From now on, you know as much as I do.”

Alexander ran past them – oblivious to his brother’s hand on his wife’s arm – as he dashed toward their exit. Emeliana could sense his urgency to reach Sebastianus and save him. “Scota! With me!”

Scota hesitated only a moment. Then he looked at Emeliana and said, “I believe you.” And he let her go to run after Alexander. Despite this, despite all the chaos around them, Emeliana’s heart swelled with a wild, unfamiliar joy.  

_He knows I’m behind this. Knows I’m a part of it. But still he stands with me._

 

**

 

Lucan still wasn’t sure exactly what the fuck was going on.

He felt like something had chewed him up and spat him out. By now he knew Marina’s Mark hadn’t been able to kill him – so much for that one hope – though for her he was glad she didn’t have to carry the weight.

But why was Charelius talking inside his head all of a sudden? _Now_ what, exactly?

Marina knelt next to him, unable to touch; the guards had not given her back her gloves. A lock of her silver hair fell across her cheek as she leaned close. “We have to fight,” she whispered urgently. “I have to go. You should hide.”

“Hide from what? It’s not like they can kill me.” He managed to smile up at her. “Seems like we established that.”

She shook her head, but her gentle amusement faded as the pitch of the roaring in the arena rose. “I’ll find you. All right?”

Lucan nodded at her as she hurried off.

Hide. Right now – when he couldn’t even stand on his own two feet – it was as much as he could do. Later, when he wasn’t still half-frozen from the Mark of Pluto, he might be able to throw himself into whatever fight Erich had started. At the moment, his best bet was to get out of the way. His body remained weak, and his thinking fuzzy and unclear.

The last thing Marina needed was him distracting her, slowing her down.

So he crawled on his hands and knees through the tunnels of the Colosseum. No guards stopped him, unless he counted the dead one he had to crawl over. Obviously Erich was doing some damage.

Finally Lucan emerged from the Colosseum to see chaos. People were stampeding through the streets, either trying to get away from the arena (if they had been inside and seen what was beginning) or to get into it (those who had not managed to find seats before, and wanted to know what was going on.) Lucan shoved himself against the stone wall, still unable to get his legs under him, and not sure what to do next. His mind remained too dazed to fully answer the urgency of the situation.

“Come with me.”

He looked up to see a figure in white standing above him, her veil stirring slightly in the breeze. Charelius’ Vestal, he realized, though Lucan had never seen her before. Her hair was as red as sunset, and her face maybe the most beautiful he’d ever seen. Wordlessly he took her hand, and with a strength beyond any he would have imagined, she guided him into a waiting cart.

 _Bestius?_ Surely he was seeing things; maybe he’d hit his head when he fell unconscious from Marina’s touch. Because there was no damn way his ride away from the Colosseum was the charioteer of the Whites.

“Are you well?” she whispered, smiling down at him. The cart jolted forward, urged on by a driver who was probably furry and definitely blue but just _could not_ be Bestius. His rescuer continued, “I am the Vestal Junia.”

“Lucan.” His voice was hoarse. “No disrespect, but if my heart didn’t already belong to someone else, I think it would be yours already.” Then he remembered exactly how exalted a person he was speaking to. “I mean, thanks.”

Junia only smiled. “Good thing someone else has your heart. A Vestal Virgin can’t make much use of that.”

No, instead of a Vestal Virgin, he was in love with a girl he could never touch again.

Still dazed, Lucan slumped down in the cart, his head lolling to one side, as he thought, _You sure know how to pick ‘em._

 

**

 

“Come on,” Charelius urged Roveca as they went down the stairs. But the pathway in the Colosseum from the imperial box to the arena was not direct. The Flavians had little imagined that any emperor would ever lower himself to this – or that anyone else from the imperial box would rush down to hasten his death.

But even as Roveca caught up with him, they were joined by others on the steps. Alexander, Scota, several more praetorians ready to avenge their fallen comrades: This was bad. Charelius swore under his breath. They could take down many Romans, but not all of them, not even with their Marks. And if this turned into a bloodbath, how could they say they were any better than the Romans they rebelled against?

Suspicion rose behind him, sharp as a dart, and Charelius tried to dodge – but not fast enough to avoid the hand clamping down on his shoulder.

“You,” Alexander said. “The new slave, and Marked like the others. Did you know of this?”

How much Charelius wanted to confront him. In that moment – when this young, proud patrician kept him from going to Erich’s aid – Charelius was angrier than Erich had ever been. But he knew the wiser path. Using his Mark, he settled the wariness in Alexander’s mind. “No, _dominus._ Roveca sought my assistance; that is all.”

“Yes, of course,” Alexander muttered, cheeks reddening at the thought that he had been wrong, even foolish, to waste time interrogating a lowly slave.

So that was dodged – but now Alexander, Scota and a dozen other troops were with them, ahead of them, making it harder to reach the arena, and Erich.

“What’s happening?” cried a noblewoman they ran into as they hurried down the steps. “In the streets, there’s rioting already – slaves rising up against their masters – ”

“It is only unrest in the arena,” Alexander insisted. “Nothing more.”

Then Scota surprised Charelius, saying, “No, brother. This is rebellion.”

 _More than that,_ Charelius thought. _Revolution._

 

**

 

In all his battles in the arena, Erich had often dreamed of the sight before him now – the crowds screaming in terror, running for their lives, now that the danger had leapt into the stands and come for them.

But even in his best dreams, he had not dared to imagine anything as glorious as this.

Impossible to say that lines of battle were being formed, but most of the Marked had joined together against those who supported the emperor. Some of these were Marked too – Avitus appeared in a swirl of red smoke, with a swing at Erich that he only barely managed to duck. These were traitors and would be dealt with in time. For now it was enough to cut down Sebastianus’ troops in front of his eyes.

Even as the bodies of the praetorians fell thick into the sand, though, the emperor fought on. They’d all had a turn at him now, from Iuventius with his ice to Catula, who had tried running straight through him. Although that made Sebastianus go pale, he did not falter. Every blow that landed on him redoubled his power.

_How do I kill this man?_

“Yield!” cried a white-haired woman who strode into the arena. Charelius had told Erich of her – Aura, was it? Whoever she was, she held herself proudly as she called out orders to the emperor himself. “Stop this bloodshed!”

Sebastianus grinned. The bastard was enjoying this. “We’ll whose blood is shed.”

Aura held her hands to the sky; instantly, clouds began to appear, rushing in with unearthly speed and shadowing the light. Erich could not afford to stare at this phenomenon, not with Sebastianus’ soldiers coming at him from all sides. He threw himself fully into the fight, slashing and blocking; with his Mark he reached out for metal everywhere he could find it, bringing it to him to fashion weapons.

In the melee it was hard to make out much of what was going on, but he saw the blue, elfin one fall to the ground, apparently too stunned to use his Mark. A praetorian closed in on him, and Erich made ready with his sword –

\--when lightning slammed down on the praetorian. Everyone screamed. The soldier fell down, blackened and either dead or so close to it that it made no difference.

“She is Marked by Jupiter!” screamed someone from the Colosseum crowd. “The king of the gods has chosen her!” Aura merely kept her hands aloft, her eyes a strange milky white, preparing to summon Jupiter’s Mark again.

 _That will turn the tide,_ Erich thought with a rush of elation. _Now that they see the mightiest of all has Marked one of us, one of those turning against the emperor, they know victory will ultimately be ours._

But he knew today they would still have to fight their way out.

 _Sebastianus –_ but the emperor had disappeared into the melee. Erich’s eyes narrowed; his prey had eluded him. Angry as this made him, he knew his first responsibility. “To the gates!” he cried. “Everyone! We leave here free!”

Together the Marked began fighting their way out, a battle that proved easier than Erich would have thought. The praetorians had wanted to protect their emperor first and foremost. Now that Sebastianus had tucked tail and run, his troops did not fight as viciously.

“Where do we go?” cried little Catula, at his elbow. “After the Colosseum, where?”

Erich had worked this out in detail during his time in Rome, when he had been allowed to wander at will. Even then, he had known this day might come. “Follow the Arcus Neroniani out of the city,” he shouted. Even those unfamiliar with Rome would be able to find the great aqueduct. “Past the Caelian Hill, into the countryside. We can defend ourselves there and live free!”

A few people cheered. Most were too busy fighting or running to celebrate. Erich knew his duty was to take up the rear and defend his new army of the Marked as best he could.

But as they ran through the tunnel that would take them outside, their voices ringing against the arches, Erich saw so many of their kind … but not Charelius.

_Where are you?_

 

**

 

As Alexander and Scota ran toward the arena, Charelius held back, Emeliana by his side. She whispered, “What do we do?”

“You should go home, right away. The streets will be dangerous, domina. Your husband should help you.”

To Charelius’ surprise, she scowled; within her he sensed cynical disappointment. “I’d be here until nightfall. Never mind it. My Mark protects me.”

She shifted into her diamond form, and Charelius nodded, relieved _. Keep the amissiona. I’m going to fight alongside Erich. We’ll contact one another through Junia._

“You, fight?” Emeliana exclaimed out loud. Fortunately, in the hubbub, no one was listening; their corner of the tunnel was a rush of soldiers, and the loudest sounds were the thumping of boots, the jangling of armor and the distant shouting of the battle beyond. “You’ll be killed!”

Not very flattering – but Charelius understood her concern. “I have to be where Erich is.”

After a moment, Emeliana nodded, then dashed away.

Charelius then reached out with his mind, looking for familiar thoughts, patterns he knew. The first he found was Marina. Startled as she was to hear his thoughts in her mind, she wasted no time asking, _Where’s Lucan? I told him to hide, but he hid too well, and now he’s going to be left behind for them to torture._

This much Charelius had already learned. _No, he’s all right. Lucan’s been taken to the House of the Vestals. Remember, if we get separated, Junia is our contact! As a Vestal Virgin, Junia alone would stand above suspicion in the days to come._

 _Erich wants us to run along the Arcus Neroniani until we’re out of town_ , Marina thought back to him. _Hurry_!

Charelius began to run toward the fight, knowing he could catch up. Everything was happening too fast, but this was their chance, the only one they would ever have.

As he neared the exit, figures appeared in shadow in front of him – and Charelius skidded to a halt as he recognized the man striding toward him.

“My slave boy,” Sebastianus growled. “You knew this was coming, didn’t you? With your tricks of the mind, you had to know.”

He made no reply. Any word could damn him now.

Sebastianus’ hand closed around his throat – not choking Charelius, but holding him still. The hatred and anger within him curled like smoke, clouding Charelius’ mind as darkly as the emperor’s own. “You knew this was coming,” Sebastianus repeated, and now he did not mean the rebellion. He meant Charelius’ punishment.

Could his Mark save him even from this?

 _I will not let it happen,_ Charelius thought wildly. _I will not. I will use all my power to stop him, and if I can’t – instead, I will die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **
> 
> I hate to do this, but I'm afraid I've got to put this story on holiday break. Between work obligations, holiday travel and the fic exchanges I foolishly signed up for, there is just no way I can keep posting "Pantheon" once a week, at least not the way I'd like it to be written, and keep up. I'm so sorry to leave it here! The following three chapters are already outlined and partly written, and they absolutely, positively will be posted just after the New Year. Please forgive me, and I hope you have enjoyed it so far.


	10. Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ROMAN NAMES
> 
> Charles = Charelius  
> Erik = Erichthonius or Magnus  
> Emma = Emeliana  
> Logan = Lucan  
> Marie/Rogue = Marina  
> Jean = Junia  
> Henry/Beast = Bestius  
> Alexander = Alexander, yay!  
> Kitty/Shadowcat = Catula  
> Scott = Scota  
> Sebastian = Sebastianus  
> Lilandra = Lilandra  
> Kurt/Nightcrawler = Curio  
> Raven = Roveca  
> Angel = Aquilina  
> Armando = Armin  
> Azazel = Avitus  
> Janos = Januarius  
> Bobby/Iceman = Iuventius  
> Ororo/Storm = Aura  
> Sean Cassidy/Banshee = Cassius  
> Betsy Braddock/Psylocke = Braddouca  
> Remy LeBeau/Gambit = Gamnet

Even on ordinary days, the streets of Rome were bedlam – a cacophony of voices calling out in a dozen languages, horses’ hooves and wagon wheels against the stone roads, the mechanical whirr of looms, pottery wheels, and grinders for grain.

Now they were chaos.

Erich had thought the Marked would have to fight their way out of Rome, staining their path with blood. Instead people fled in front of them, knocking over carts and food stands in their desperation to escape. A few even shouted out the names of gods – showing their piety, which was as close as the Marked could expect to support.

So be it. He had no use for help from any Roman. With his sword in his hand and his liberty, Erich had all he needed. If he could simply get his people to the woods, where they could hide, rest and make plans –

Then what?

He didn’t know and never had known. All Erich’s ambitions for Rome’s downfall had been focused on cutting off the head, ideally literally. Sebastianus had been so close, and still Erich had not been able to kill him …

If he dwelled on that, it would drive him mad. They would get to the woods. Most Romans feared the woods because bandits lurked there; the bandits would fear the Marked if they had any sense, or die if they did not. After that, Erich would figure out what came next.

So he kept running, kept going, accepting his leadership over these Marked who had put their lives in his hands. And Erich never slowed, not even once, not even as he became more and more sure that Charelius had not escaped.

Charelius was now in Sebastianus’ hands.

 

**

 

“You knew this was coming.” Sebastianus’ hand tightened around Charelius’ throat. “Guards!”

Charelius knew the soldiers weren’t being summoned to kill him. They were being summoned to rape him, repeatedly, as his punishment and Sebastianus’ pleasure. This was the threat that had hung over his head ever since Sebastianus had stolen him along with the rest of Lilandra’s troupe; now, at last, the emperor intended to make it real.

Before, though, when Sebastianus had spoken of this, Charelius had sensed only delight in the prospect – anticipation of reveling in Charelius’ pain and humiliation. Now Sebastianus was consumed by rage and fear. He knew the uprising of the Marked endangered his rule and his life. Punishing Charelius wasn’t even sport for him, merely a way to feel powerful again.

 “You think you can do this,” Charelius said. “You think it makes you strong.”

Sebastianus laughed. The guards assembling around them – not yet understanding why they were wanted – looked on silently, weapons at the ready. “Do you still not understand my power?”

The force of Sebastianus’ shove felt like heavy stone. Charelius flew backwards, thudding into the wall so hard it stole his breath; he landed on his knees, clutching his gut and gasping.

“That’s a good position for you. We can begin,” Sebastianus said, pushing aside the front of his robes. Apparently his distaste for male bodies wasn’t as powerful as his desire to dominate Charelius.

One more gasp of air, and Charelius said, “Do you still not understand _my_ strength?”

Sebastianus laughed. “You, slave boy?”

 _Me_ , Charelius said with his mind.

He intended for everyone in the room to hear it, and they seemed to. Guards stiffened and reached for their weapons – but Charelius flung out his hand, stilling their bodies and brains as one. They would not have moved if he’d set them on fire.

Charelius had always wondered if he could do this. Had suspected it, yet feared to find out. Finally, overcome with fear for Erich and for himself, enraged by Sebastianus’ arrogance and cruelty, the power seemed to flow in and through him as naturally as blood in his veins, or air in his lungs. Surely he had always had this gift, but it had come to him only when he needed it most. Minerva’s wisdom was great.

Sebastianus stood there, his half-erect member in his hand, looking like a fool. He, too, was completely shock-still, but Charelius could see the fear and astonishment in his eyes.

“Marked by Hercules.” Charelius’ voice shook with anger as he walked closer to Sebastianus. “A mere demigod. I am Marked by Minerva, goddess of wisdom and war. While Hercules was shoveling shit out of the Augean stables, Minerva defeated the other gods and gave weapons to man. You dared ignore her?” The laugh bubbling up within Charelius had nothing to do with happiness. “If you believed for one moment that Minerva was less powerful – that she would not protect me and punish you – then you’re worse than a fool. You never believed in the gods. Never. Only in your own vanity.”

By now he was in Sebastianus’ face. The temptation to spit was strong, but he thought it might denigrate his goddess, using her Mark for such a petty revenge. Charelius took the knife from Sebastianus’ own belt, making sure the movement would be felt.

He could kill the emperor, this moment, and no one could stop him.

Yet if he did, someone else would take Sebastianus’ place within hours. Avitus, probably, or Januarius – both of them more suspicious than the current emperor, and both of them unknown quantities. More importantly, neither of them particularly liked or trusted Alexander, which meant Emeliana’s access to them would be limited. They could not be as easily dosed with _amissiona_ , and so would be far harder to defeat.

Victory was made up of more than shedding one man’s blood, no matter how badly Charelius now wanted to shed it.

“There are mightier things in this world than you, Sebastianus,” Charelius whispered, staring into the emperor’s blank, terrified eyes. “The gods have only begun to punish you for your pride. The worst is yet to come.”

Then he squeezed with his Mark, compressing their minds down to the merest shadows of what they usually were, and sent every man in the room tumbling down unconscious.

How long would they stay that way? Charelius had no idea – he’d never even dreamed he could do something like this before today. He didn’t need long. As he ran for the corridor that would lead him out of the Colosseum into the streets of Rome, Charelius made himself unremarkable, unnoticeable; his mind told every person who saw him that he wasn’t important in the slightest.

The streets were mayhem. Obviously Erich and the others had cut a swath of destruction through the city, but the resulting riot and looting made it hard to tell which direction they’d run in.

So Charelius ran toward the only safe place he knew – toward the House of the Vestals.

 

**

 

“What if they followed us?”

“Is there anything to eat? Everyone needs water, and we’re nowhere near a river – ”

“Armin cut his foot running. Should we cut up some of our robes for bandages?”

“Where do we sleep?”

The questions kept coming at Erich, a dozen in each direction. They’d made it to the woods just outside the city – the woods usually frequented by no one but bandits. Now that the first flush of anger and triumph had faded, everyone was tired, and worried, and afraid.

Fear was what gripped him hardest – not for himself, but for the others who had followed him, and above all for Charelius. Even now, he must be enduring such torment …

_Don’t think about it now. You can’t. You can only make yourself ready to save him and take revenge. That can only be done by protecting these people and making them strong._

The calmest of them all was Aura. No wonder she stood there like a queen – the only person ever Marked by the highest of all the gods. Erich remembered her calling down lightning from the sky as though it were her personal plaything. He stepped closer to her and said, “You can protect us if the Romans approach.”

She nodded. “Unless they send full legions – which they may. Even then, I could warn you in time to flee.”

They had the option of scouts from the air, an advantage the Romans could only dream of. Encouraged, Erich found himself able to think tactically again. “You and this other one – what is your name?”

“Aquilina,” she said, her jewel-like insect wings fluttering on her back.

“The two of you trade shifts. Keep watch. Aura can use her lightning to stop any smaller party of soldiers if she sees them, and you – ”

Aquilina pursed her lips, then spat a small, white-hot flame that made Erich step hurriedly back. “I can handle a few soldiers. Not so many as I could without the _amissiona_.”

“ _Amissiona_ ,” he repeated, the enormity of it sinking in at last. “Do we have any?”

Aura held up a flask tied to her belt. “I have a few days’ supply.”

“Share it with Aquilina,” Erich ordered. “And with no one else, no matter how we beg.”

Charelius had told him how terrible it was to stop taking _amissiona_ abruptly. The pain of weaning himself off the stuff had been bad enough, as Erich well remembered. But even if they could acquire enough _amissiona_ for the couple hundred Marked people gathered together here, it would have been foolish to postpone the agony by making themselves weaker.

A week before coherence returned, according to Charelius. Nearly another week before regaining anything like normal health. How could they hide from the Romans for so long?

They had to find a way. No. _He_ had to find a way, Erich himself.

So he walked into the center of the copse where most of the Marked had gathered. Although he did not clear his throat or raise his hand, the others instinctively quieted and turned toward him, acknowledging his leadership – and his responsibility.

“We will have to face the emperor and his armies someday soon,” Erich said. “When that time comes, we must be at our most powerful. That means we can no longer be held back by the amissiona. Not that we have any to take even if we wanted.”

The others exchanged glances, but no one objected. One man – blue, with a pointed tail – leaned forward. “I am Curio, and the Romans say I am Marked by Mercury. I have endured going without _amissiona_ once, and I must say two things to all of you who have not. First, the agony to come is as terrible as you will ever have known. Second – it is worth it. To have your power back, to be yourself again. We must remember this and be strong.”

Despite the tension among the group as they heard about the pain ahead, no one objected. Did that mean they were willing to follow this plan?

_Charelius, if only you were with me to read men’s minds – if only you were with me, and safe –_

“Not all of us take _amissiona_ ,” pointed out Catula. “Those of us who are free of it can nurse the rest and stand guard.”

“What are the chances they won’t find us?” said a young man with pale hair. He added, “Iuventius, Marked by Neptune. We all know the Romans will search for us immediately. Probably they’re already putting patrols together already.”

“Afraid?” said Catula, lifting her chin.

“Of the Romans? Yes! We all should be.” Iuventius took a deep breath. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to fight them and win. I’m only asking how we can possibly do that while we’re weaning ourselves from the _amissiona_.”

Erich took another step forward until he stood in the center of the circle they had all formed. “There are those of us who can shelter and guard us. We have to trust in their Marks, and in each other.” He looked from person to person, finally recognizing the hope he saw there. “Whatever comes, we face it together.”

“Together,” Curio repeated, and others said it too – _Together, together._

He had faced down countless gladiators in the arena, and yet Erich had never known fear like this – fear for those who had put their lives into his hands.

An even greater fear still gnawed at him, and would until he knew the answer to the greatest question in his mind: _Where is Charelius?_

 

**

 

“Charelius. Thank the gods.” Junia gestured for him to hurry through the door, which he did.

Never had he seen the inside of the House of the Vestals; nor had any other man still living, Charelius thought. It looked not unlike any other temple that had not been restored in too long – murals fading, marble floor worn so that it was no longer flat, oil lamps burning in every archway. Yet the sacredness of the place struck him so fully that Charelius could hardly bring himself to keep walking. “I cannot be found here.”

“Do you think I’ve forgotten the price a Vestal pays for contact with men?” Junia’s pace never slowed as she led him down the long hall. “You can’t waste any time being afraid for me. I put my trust in Vesta, and we do what we must.”

Her courage and faith unfurled like a battle flag, and Charelius smiled at her as he quickened his pace to remain by her side.

Her private chamber was shockingly modest for one of the most revered women in Rome: two small rooms, hardly bigger than those to be found in an insula, and not much grander even if they were made of stone instead of wood. A small altar in one corner burned with a few candles, a cone of heavily perfumed incense, and various small statues and busts of Vesta and Venus. On the walls, a few basic shelves held her folded clothing – all of it white and saffron, robes and veils – and in the far room, in one corner, stood her simple bed.

And in that bed lay a man.

“Lucan.” Charelius went to his side. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit.”

He looked it, too; Lucan’s skin was pale and crosshatched with small dark broken veins. No doubt his Mark of Apollo would heal him soon, but so far all it had been able to do was keep Lucan alive. Charelius began to pat Lucan on the shoulder before remembering who he was dealing with. “You know you have to leave here the first moment you possibly can.”

“I’m not going to put the lady in any more danger than I have to.” Lucan glanced at Junia so affectionately that Charelius wondered whether he’d been wrong about the man’s bond with Marina –

Until the door swung open again, and Marina and Emeliana walked in. Charelius could feel the sudden surge of emotion between Marina and Lucan – cresting like a wave – as well as Emeliana’s relief at seeing him. “You made it out.”

“Sebastianus couldn’t hold me,” he said, which seemed like the easiest way to put it. “How did you get here?”

“My ‘adoring’ husband told me to find safety before running off to shadow his beloved emperor again.” She sat down on Junia’s stool, unwinding the white palla from her hair. Only then did she hold up her flask. “I saved the wine.”

Charelius breathed out in relief. “Good work.” At least now they would have a chance to test the stuff before they used it on Sebastianus.

But how could he even pretend that anything that happened today had happened for the best? They had begun with high hopes; they were ending with Erich and the others running for their lives, Junia risking herself to hide them within the House of the Vestals, and Lucan flat on his back.

Yet their uprising had begun. Charelius had been the one reminding Erich that it would take more than one death, one day, one battle. The struggle ahead could take months or years. He would have to accustom himself to this suspense, the terrible uncertainty about what lay ahead for them all. 

_Erich, where are you? Surely you made it out of Rome. I have to believe that._

Thinking of the world behind Rome reminded Charelius that Erich had reached out to others among the Marked during his journeys – “Lucan?”

As soon as he had said Lucan’s name, Charelius wished he’d waited a few moments longer. Lucan’s massive hand was cradled between Marina’s gloved ones, the two of them saying nothing but leaning close to one another, as though it were enough merely to be together again. Charelius had broken the spell. It took Lucan a moment to turn his face from Marina’s. “Yeah?”

“Erich said he had readied the Marked all around the world. Told them an uprising would come, and we had to come together.”

“That’s about the size of it,” Lucan said. He tried to push himself into a seated position, winced, and flopped back onto the bed. “Word of what happened in the arena here today – that’s going to spread faster than brushfire. Bet it won’t be a week before they’re talking about it from Lusitania to Syria.”

“A week is too long,” Emeliana said. “Nobody moves faster than military couriers, and Sebastianus will send out riders tomorrow morning if he hasn’t managed it by nightfall.”

If the military was already prepared for the Marked before any rebellion could even begin, they were all doomed.

An idea blossomed within Charelius’ mind, fully-formed from the start like Minerva herself. Had he imagined this before today, or anyone else suggested it to him, he would have thought it pure madness. But now that Charelius had seen what he could do – the greater dimensions of his Mark – nothing seemed impossible.

“I want us to try something,” he said. “Emeliana, Junia and I. All of us who can speak to other minds.”

Marina paused from stroking Lucan’s hair long enough to say, “Are you going to warn all the Marked in the city? Whisper into their thoughts?”

“Not just the city. The whole world.”

To Charelius it seemed as though he could already feel them out there – all the Marked, everywhere, their minds separated from his own by only the thinnest bubble, one he needed only a little help to pop.

Emeliana laughed, a short, hard sound. “How are we supposed to do that?”

It was Junia who answered her. “Together. At least we can try.”

Charelius held his hands out; Junia took one, her touch hesitant – only then did Charelius remember that she would not have been able to so much as hold a man’s hand since she was a small child. When Emeliana took the other, as they all three knelt upon the floor. When Junia and Emeliana clasped hands in turn, they formed a circle. He looked on them both – one who was both friend and idol, a woman whose mercy had helped teach him out to hope, and another who had been his slaveowner and betrayer before becoming his ally. They stood at the lowest and highest levels of society, from the ordinary to the exalted; the three of them were a microcosm of the Marked, and of Rome itself.

 _Together we can reach everyone_ , he thought, willing himself to believe it.

“Both of you have opened your minds to me at times,” Charelius said. “Do that again, and we can begin.”

He closed his eyes. Instinct. First he became aware of Junia’s spirit, flame-bright and warm – then Emeliana’s, cooler and clearer. Charelius lowered the boundaries between their minds further and further, more than he had ever dared attempt before, until his consciousness flowed so easily among theirs that it was hard to tell whose thoughts were whose.

Yet the will was there. Charelius used it to reach out and find them.

All of them.

Everywhere.

 

**

 

In a granary in Rome, Cassius had barred the doors, afraid that rioters might barge in and help themselves to the wheat – or, worse, smash the works. Behind that lurked another, darker fear … that the plan Bestius had told him of had failed, and the Praetorians would soon arrive to arrest Cassius as a co-conspirator.

He ran one hand through his red hair, which marked him as a foreigner to everyone; he was a freedman now, but that didn’t mean neighbors wouldn’t turn against him to save their own skins …

_You are of the Marked._

The whisper came from within Cassius’ head, but he knew it wasn’t his own thought. Was it the gods?

 _No_ , he realized. _The others._

 

**

 

In Gaul, in the city of Lautrego, an auburn-haired man named Gamnat sat at a tavern table, grinning at the arrogant Roman centurions he was about to fleece of every sesterce they had.

“Be careful of that one,” grumbled a patron. “He cheats.”

Gamnat held out his hands in a sweeping gesture – careful to make sure none of the strange sparkles of light appeared. “We’ll use your dice. That way you know it’s fair.”

The soldiers looked at each other; then, with a grin, one of them produced a few dice carved of bone – nicely made, to judge by the polish and the fine inking. In fact, Gamnat was pretty sure these were special dice. As in, weighted. These fellows hoped to win against a provincial poorer than they would ever be.

They hoped in vain. Gamnat had never been forced to resort to loaded dice in his life. Fortuna herself had Marked him, and the dice obeyed Gamnat and his goddess both.

As he reached for the dice, though, he heard the voice in his head:

_The gods Marked you. The gods chose you, just as they chose us all. But the Romans do not acknowledge the work of the gods. They make us slaves and servants unless we do the emperor’s bidding._

_We must free ourselves. We must rise._

“You going to throw or what?” one of the centurions demanded.

Gamnat gestured loosely at the dice, unwilling to divert his attention from the message within his mind. “How about you roll first?”

 

**

 

In Britannia, in the outpost city of Londinium, walked the warrior Braddouca – though the Romans who looked at her would see only another woman in a heavy cloak meant to provide shelter from the snow. The cloak also hid her broadsword, which suited her well.

She did not intend to kill any Romans today. This trip was only to hear the gossip … specifically, about whether the Roman prefect remained ill. He’d been sickly all winter; if his health would not return, either he would die or the Romans would replace him as soon as the roads improved enough for another prefect to make the journey. That meant her tribe would have to strike soon –

Braddouca froze mid-step, clutching her hood close around her dark violet hair, as she heard the voice within her head.

_Even now an army of the Marked has fled Rome to gather strength. If you can come to us, come. If you cannot, then resist where you are. Every trouble we cause the Romans now, every soldier they cannot send back to fight, is one more step toward our freedom._

_We can only do this together._

_Join us._

Although Braddouca sensed the message was over, she nonetheless stood there a few long moments, ruminating over what she had heard. She knew herself to be Marked, as the Romans would call it. Her tribe celebrated her power and cherished her as their greatest fighter. Those few Romans who had seen what she could really do had not lived long enough to tell the others, and so she had remained free.

Her loyalty was to her tribe, not to any others out there in the world with their own Marks. And yet – if they meant to cause trouble for the Romans –

Braddouca smiled.

 

**

At the encampment in the woods, people began to clap and cheer, or to laugh out loud in astonishment. Erich could only stand there, trying to cling to the echo of Charelius’ voice in his head. _He’s alive. Alive and surely beyond Sebastianus’ reach._

Although he could not have said how precisely he did this, he reached for Charelius’ mind – felt as though his heart were calling _here, it’s me._ And within his own thoughts he felt the answering rush of Charelius’ relief.

More than that, he knew that Charelius understood where they were, and why. Which meant Charelius would come to them shortly.

“How did he do that?” said Curio, grinning in his delight. “He could speak to every Marked person in the empire at once.”

“I think he has,” Erich said.

His joy was greater than those who laughed and whooped. He could only lean his forehead into his hand, take a deep breath, and give thanks to the gods – the Hebrew god, and Vulcan, and the rest of the pantheon besides. But he would not truly believe Charelius safe until he held him in his arms.

 

**

 

“They heard,” Junia whispered.

Charelius had been thinking exactly this, but did not yet dare trust it. He was too overwhelmed by the moment when – among the thousands of minds brushing against his – he had sensed Erich’s unique, unmistakable self. “Do you think so?”

“We all sensed them,” Emeliana said. She looked pale as her white clothes, and her tone was sharp. “False modesty doesn’t become you, Charelius. You know you reached them all. Everywhere. I had no idea the world was so – ”

Her voice trailed off; within her mind he sensed a tangled nest of fear and wonder. Charelius squeezed her hand. “ _We_ reached them all.”

That won him a small, quirked smile from Emeliana. “Mostly you.”

“Well, it was loud and clear to me.” Marina said. “For what that’s worth.”

Lucan snorted. “Not much, seeing as how we’re halfway across a small room.”

Had they truly ignited a worldwide rebellion? Well, not worldwide: His mind had touched upon Marked people who dwelled so far away they had never heard of Rome. They were the lucky ones. The rest, however – they might rise. Charelius still hardly dared to hope it could be true. Yet even the impossible now seemed within their reach.

That didn’t mean they could ignore the present danger. “I must leave here,” he said to Junia. “Lucan too.”

“He can’t possibly be moved yet,” Junia said. Her veil brushed her cheek as she looked back at the man in her bed.

“The hell I can’t.” Lucan tried to sit up again, then destroyed his own argument by flopping back down. “Just load me onto a wagon like one of the logs. Haul me outta here. I can’t die, remember?”

Charelius shook his head. “You’re one of the very few Marked gladiators nearly any Roman would recognize on sight, because you never wore a helmet.” Besides, that spiky hair – it was as good as a nameplate around Lucan’s neck.  “We shouldn’t try to get you out of Rome until you’re able to defend yourself.”

Junia smiled so gently that only Charelius’ Mark told him of the fear in her heart. “No one saw you come in. You’re safer here, and so am I. Your leaving – that’s more dangerous than you’re staying. It shouldn’t happen until you’re ready.”

Although Lucan still looked doubtful, he nodded.

Marina interjected, “Speaking of Marked slaves most Romans know on sight…”

Charelius could have cursed himself. “I ought to have thought.” Marina’s black robes and the one shining lock of white hair signaled her identity to all. “Sebastianus will be calling every one of the Marked to serve him or be condemned. Those of us who have run from his service are in danger. But I can disguise myself with my Mark, and you too, Marina.”

She shook her head. “I’m not leaving until Lucan leaves.”

“C’mon, kid,” Lucan growled. “Get outta here.”

“Are you ever going to stop calling me kid?”

The resulting spat might have lasted for a while, but Emeliana briskly cut in. “I can bring you some of my old stolae from home, ones in various colors. A wig, too. That should disguise you well enough to walk the streets.”

As Marina smiled, Junia turned to Charelius. “Use your power to help Bestius leave. He’s more conspicuous than any of us. Right now he’s hiding in the stables.”

“Of course.” How wonderful that the fastest chariot driver in Rome could be the one to take him to Erich.

A knock at Junia’s door made them all startle, but Charelius recognized the mind behind the door. “Roveca,” he whispered.

“Oh, no,” Marina said, placing herself between the door and Lucan as though she could fight off the emperor’s troops herself.

“You don’t have to worry about her,” Charelius said as he opened the door. His sister – in her blonde-haired visage – bounded forward to take him in her arms.

“Since when did you start going for girlfriends instead?” Lucan said.

How had he not mentioned it to anyone before? Hardly any time, hardly any chance. To Charelius’ surprise, he found he wanted to tell Emeliana most of all. She alone would realize what this meant to him. He brushed his Roveca’s hair back from her face, and said, “This is my sister.”

Junia raised an eyebrow; Marina gaped; Lucan swore under his breath. But it was Emeliana that Charelius looked at longest, and the smile they shared brought tears to his eyes.

So this was what it meant to forgive.

 

**

 

As near as Marina could put it together, Charelius turned out to be Roveca’s brother, and because of that Roveca was on their side no matter what. She found it difficult to believe – Roveca had never quite swayed from Sebastianus despite many good reasons. Yet as she saw Charelius and Roveca together, and remembered how she had felt about her brothers in the years before she was sold for a slave, Marina knew it could be possible.

At any rate, they had to trust Roveca, because Roveca was returning to the palace.

“The emperor will expect me,” Roveca said. “He trusts me. Relies on me. If I stay by his side, I’ll know his every move, and can be ready to strike at any moment.”

“Don’t.” Charelius took her hand. How good it must be, Marina thought, to be able to touch someone you loved, whenever you wanted. “You mustn’t make a move until he’s been dosed. Before that, it’s too dangerous.”

Roveca tossed her currently-blonde hair. “Then give me the _amissiona_ – ”

“He’ll suspect you, if you try to give him anything to eat or drink,” Emeliana said. “Me, I have a chance.”

“I could look like you,” Roveca pointed out.

“There are other people more useful for you to look like,” Emeliana insisted.

While this argument went on, Marina turned back to Lucan. She could hardly believe he’d been restored to her – but more than restored. Made new, revealed to her for the first time.

Lucan murmured, “You know you oughta go with Charelius, right?”

“You know I’m not going to listen to you, right?” She smiled as she folded her arms atop her knees. From where she sat on the floor, her face was even with Lucan’s.

He sighed. “Not like you’d start now.”

“Exactly. Besides, don’t you want to see me in one of Emeliana’s fancy wigs?” Marina could just picture it, a riot of curls piled high, perhaps in some outlandish color like pink or green.

Lucan’s smile was softer than she’d ever seen it before. “You’d still be beautiful.”

Her heart had hungered for words like these for years. “I never knew how you felt, not really.”

“You know I only lied to you for your own good, right?”  

Touched though Marina was, she didn’t intend to let him get away with that. “I’d rather have had the truth.”

“Fine. I lied to you for my own good. Not that it helped much.” With two fingers he caught a strand of her hair – the only part of her he could safely touch – and wound it between his fingers. “When we were together, I wanted to push you away. When you were gone, I wanted you back again. You see the kind of mixed-up guy you’re dealing with here?”

“Yeah. I see.” She ran her hand along that lock of hair; he let it go just as it slid between her fingers, still warmed by Lucan’s touch.

By this time the others were done making their plans; apparently Emeliana would keep the drugged wine intended for Sebastianus, and Roveca would now return to the emperor’s side. Charelius would leave the city, using his Mark to protect him and Bestius both, as they went to join Erich’s new army.

The time would come for Marina to join that army. She was prepared, now, to finally use her killing touch for good. But she thought there was something more important she could do first.

When Junia gave her a measuring look, Marina realized her plan had been obvious … at least, to the Vestal. Everyone else was too preoccupied with their own concerns – Emeliana fussing over Roveca, and Roveca not quite sure what to do about it as her brother smiled. Yet before they left, Charelius came to clasp Lucan’s hand, then carefully hug Marina around her robes, and he must have picked up on her thoughts as well. “I don’t like the thought of it,” he whispered. “Leaving you defenseless, especially while Lucan’s down.”

“We’re all taking the risks together.” Marina smiled up at Charelius; he had to know how afraid she was, but she also wanted him to understand that she could go on despite that. “I’m ready to do my part.”

“All right.” He kissed her hair. “We’ll see each other soon.”

Emeliana paused at the doorway, unscrewing the pearl earrings she wore and putting them down on Junia’s desk. “If anyone else needs to escape, and money will help – sell these.”

“These must be worth thousands of denarii,” Junia said as she examined the lustrous pearls.

“They were a gift from my husband to express how much I mean to him.” Emeliana’s expression was grim. “So they’re worth nothing.”

Once they were gone, Lucan fell asleep again nearly immediately. Recovering from her touch of Pluto would take some time; even his regenerative Mark of Apollo could only work so fast. For a few moments, Marina simply watched, strangely content despite the danger surrounding them.

Junia remained so silent that Marina almost forgot she remained in the room, until the moment Junia stood and took a small, wax-sealed vial from her small trunk. “You know we haven’t much of this,” she said.

“It won’t help us to have oceans of it if it doesn’t work.” Marina took the bottle of concentrated _amissiona_ in her hand.

Her touch, her Mark, was her only defense. To be without it completely – for days, at least – the thought frightened her more than she once would have thought possible. “I used to want to be rid of my Mark more than anything,” she confessed to Junia. “Today’s the only day it would do me more good than harm.”

“You don’t have to do this. I could drink it instead.”

“No. You’re the only one of us the emperor can’t touch. So you have to have your powers.” Marina took a deep breath. “It should be me.”

Junia nodded. The wax seal at the top of the bottle was harder to break than Marina would have thought, but it finally cracked and crumbled away. She had never drunk _amissiona_ before, but everyone had said it tasted awful.

 _Like the taste is your biggest problem,_ she told herself. _Do it._

Marina put the vial to her lips, tilted her head back, and drank.

The taste wasn’t as bad as she’d feared – not pleasant, but more stale than horrid. Would the effects come over her in a rush of sensation? Would her skin go numb? Marina felt no different. “How long does it take to work?”

“I’ve never taken it myself, but I’m told the effect is nearly instantaneous.” Junia held out her hand. At first Marina thought she wanted the vial back, then realized she was being ridiculous. This wasn’t a request; it was a test.

Marina’s hand shook as she reached toward Junia. She had not touched a human being without causing pain in more than three years. Her fingers closed around Junia’s, and she waited for the cry, the flinch –

\--and it didn’t come.

Junia smiled. “It works.”

“It does. It does!” Marina tightened her grip on Junia, then pulled her into an embrace. As Junia laughed in surprise, Marina felt tears welling in her eyes. “You’ll tell Charelius, right?”

“Yes. Now we need to see how long it lasts. If it’s only a few hours, we can’t dose Sebastianus before the time is right. If it’s a few days – we have many possibilities.” With that, Junia took up her warm cloak. “I need to go out.”

Marina frowned. “They’re rioting out there. It’s dangerous.”

“Think, Marina. I’m known to lead a group of the Marked, one the emperor doesn’t control. Suspicion will immediately fall on me unless I make a point of being seen to help Sebastianus. And my rooms will be the first place they search. If I go out, I keep both of you safe.”

By endangering herself. Marina swallowed the lump in her throat. “Be careful.”

Junia simply smiled, and left without another word.

 

**

 

Lucan awoke to a soft touch against his brow. It had been a long time since someone touched him like that.

He opened his eyes to see Marina sitting next to him, her hand against his face.

 _I’m dreaming_ , he thought. But it all felt so real – the thickly padded feather mattress beneath him, the chill in this windowless chamber, even the faint flicker of heat from the candle at the bedside. And Marina’s touch, warm and gentle.

“I took the _amissiona_ ,” she said. “To test it.”

“It works.” Lucan knew that went without saying, but it felt like it couldn’t be true until he heard it out loud, even if he was the one who had to say it. 

Marina nodded, then took his hand and looked down at it in her grasp; he wasn’t the only one who had trouble believing this.

They were alone. For one moment Lucan wondered where Junia was, then realized she’d have to get out there to cover her own ass. He didn’t know when she might be headed back, but he figured anyone with a Mark of Minerva would know whether or not she needed to knock before opening the door.

“How do you feel?” Marina whispered.

“Nearly brand new.” Which wasn’t true. His bones ached, and the core of him still felt cold. But he felt a damn sight better than he had before.

He felt good enough to sit up, take Marina’s face in his hands, and kiss her.

She startled – not in dismay, but in surprise. This must have been her first kiss. Lucan might have regretted his impulse if she hadn’t begun to kiss him back.

Not a kid, she’d said to him. A woman. Lucan had known it but never felt it so fully as he did now, while he pressed warm kisses against her lips until they slowly parted. He brushed the tip of his tongue against hers as he ran his hands through her long hair, then gripped her around the waist to pull her even closer. Marina slipped from the seat beside the bed, but pulled herself into Lucan’s embrace, so that he cradled her against his bare chest.

It had been a long time since Lucan had had a woman, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d visited a whorehouse yesterday. This was Marina, the only one who had ever mattered. She was untouched, completely vulnerable, and he should have taken this more slowly – but who knew how long they had?

He’d wasted chances before. Not again.

“Hey,” Lucan murmured. He cupped his hand around the back of her neck, leaned his forehead against hers. Marina met his gaze, her breathing quick and shallow. They both knew she wanted this – or that she had wanted this – yet Lucan realized wanting and getting were two different things. So, voice rough, he asked, “Come to bed with me?”

Which was a stupid way to put it, seeing as how she was practically in the bed with him already. But Lucan had never pretended to be good with words. She understood him; that was enough.

Marina gulped in a breath, then nodded.

“You’re sure?” he said, even as he lowered her onto the bed beside him. The candlelight from Junia’s altar caught the white streak in her hair, painting it softly golden. “I don’t want to – rush you, hurt you.”

“Rush me? For _years_ I’ve wanted – you, this, all of it – and you think you’re rushing me?” She trembled in his arms, but the yearning he heard in her voice was real. “And I know sometimes it hurts at first. I don’t care. Let it hurt. You can … break me in two, you can tear me apart, and it doesn’t matter because I want you so much it _hurts_ – ”

Lucan silenced her by covering her mouth with his.

Her small breasts were firm against his palms, warm through the thin black silk she wore. He pulled at the belt around her waist until it came loose and he could tug her clothing away. The silk made a whispery sound as it slid to the stone floor, and as Lucan looked at Marina’s naked body for the first time, it seemed as though he could hardly breathe. She was so tiny, but so perfect, from her small rosy nipples to the feminine curve of her belly to the softness of her thighs against his hands …

Enough looking. Lucan tugged off his loincloth from the arena, threw it aside and pulled her against him.

Marina trembled as she wound her arms around him, but she kissed him back passionately. He rocked against her, giving her time to get used to the weight of his body, the feel of his muscles and his cock, before he began moving down her body to suck at her breasts. That made her whimper – in a good way – so he kept at it a good long while, until she was practically writhing beneath him. He could’ve sworn she even tasted sweet.

With one hand he parted her thighs; although she tensed a little, she didn’t pull away. Good. He knew what to do now. Some men were idiots about women’s bodies, like they banged ‘em without ever really noticing what they were doing in the first place, but he’d been around long enough to get this right. His fingers stroked against her –so wet it made him groan – until he found the right place to stroke.

“Oh.” Marina sounded shocked – but then she shivered, and her voice was softer as she repeated, “Ohhh.”

“That’s right. Let me hear it.” Nothing better than making a woman get loud, in Lucan’s opinion, and Marina had been quiet way too long.

It took a little while to get her past whimpering, and Marina kept biting her lower lip and clenching her fists and doing all the other things you did when you were trying not to give in to sensation. But she got wetter and wetter – and Lucan’s fingers got slicker – and finally she moaned and began to rock against his hand.

 _There we go_ , Lucan thought. His cock hardened as he watched her start to writhe. _Not long now._

Marina stiffened. Her eyes flew open wide, and she cried out – a low, sweet sound that seized him from balls to gut to heart.

Even as she panted in a daze, weakly brushing her hair back from her face with one hand, Lucan pushed her legs open wider, covering her body with his own. For a moment he paused there – giving her a second, and relishing the sight of her delicate body beneath his, the silhouette of his thick cock just over her parted thighs.

Then Marina reached down, taking him gently in her grip, and the touch was so good that Lucan swore beneath his breath.

Marina smiled crookedly. “That’s right,” she whispered between breaths. “Let me hear it.”

He couldn’t have waited another second. Lucan pushed her knees up, pinned her hands down and sank into her with one thrust. She arched upward, mouth open wide, and as hot and tight and _good_ as she felt Lucan managed to say, “… all right?”

Her response was to shift against him, taking him in deeper, which was the only invitation he needed.

It took her a little while to find the rhythm, to learn how to rock with him as he thrust into her slow and deep – then faster – but she found it. They both did. Lucan stayed propped up on his arms, the better to spare her his weight and to see her, pale and slim, as she moved beneath him. Nothing like watching your cock slide into a woman, watching her tilt up to meet you over and over again. Every stroke got him harder, and hotter, until he couldn’t feel anything but her.

Finally he had to bear down on her, thrust in as deep as he could go. As their bodies pressed together, Marina wrapped her legs around him; he felt her bite against his shoulder. Faster, faster again – and then he felt it coming on in one great rush –

Lucan groaned, a long ragged sound. He came inside her, for what felt like forever, until he had to gasp for breath.

As he relaxed against her, he gave her a quick, soft kiss. Once again he said, “All right?”

Marina nodded. Her smile seemed to light her up from inside. “That was even better than I thought it would be,” she whispered. “And I thought it had to be pretty wonderful.”

Lucan grinned as he rolled onto his back, pulling her against his shoulder. Exhaustion made him even sleepier than usual after sex; full recovery was still a while off. _Apollo, how about you send me back my Mark soon enough for me to be with Marina again before Junia gets back?_ Not much killed the mood faster than a Vestal Virgin walking in on you.

But just as he might have fallen asleep again, it occurred to him that – despite everything he and Marina felt, everything they knew, there were some things that still waited to be said. “Hey. You know I love you, right?”

Marina propped up on one arm, her smile wry. “You weren’t Marked by Cupid, were you?”

She wasn’t angry; she knew how he was. Still, Logan cradled the side of her face in one hand and repeated, more gently, “I love you.”

That made her smile pure again. “I love you too.”

 

**

 

Charelius shivered as he and Bestius went deeper into the woods. By now the sky overhead was deep blue – that magical color that looked like a polished jewel because it held the very last of the light. When night fell, their path would become more treacherous; Bestius’ Mark allowed him to see better in the dark than most, but the terrain was rough and icy.

“We could make camp,” Bestius said. His voice was weary. Abandoning his horses at the city’s edge had pained him. “A small fire might not be seen.”

“Too great a risk. I don’t want to chance it.”

Even if they could have been sure soldiers would not find them, Charelius would not have wanted to stop. His exhaustion didn’t matter. Neither did the cold that chilled him even through his cloak. Nothing mattered except getting to Erich.

“Are you sure you can find them?” Bestius said. “Your Mark guides you to them?”

“More or less,” Charelius admitted. Without Junia and Emeliana working with him, his powers were not as great. He knew Erich and the others were in these woods, even knew that they were worried yet not afraid. But the intense connection he’d felt in that moment, the sense that he and Erich were truly touching minds – that eluded him.

“I hesitate to mention it, but ‘more or less’ isn’t ‘yes.’” Bestius’ whiskers twitched.

“We’ll get there. Come on. We shouldn’t stop walking.” He knew they needed to keep moving to remain strong despite the cold.

Though – perhaps it was not so cold as it had been.

Charelius put a foot down on ground that was soft, not frozen. Another few steps, and he could no longer see his breath. Bestius said, “What is this?”

“Aura.” Only she could have controlled the weather like this.

Bestius sniffed the air, then lifted his head and pointed upward. Charelius looked at the darkening sky to see the outline of a human form – a flash of white that he knew to be Aura’s hair. She must have seen them, and recognized them, but had not come down to join them. That meant she must be standing guard, which meant –

He began walking faster, faster again, and when he heard the first voices he began to run. Bestius bounded just behind him, using all fours now as joyfully as he had ever walked on two legs. It seemed impossible that they could be so free, but they were, weren’t they? Was this what freedom felt like?

At last they burst into a large clearing where it was warm as summertime. Gathered together were dozens of the Marked – with glittering wings, blue skin, tails, and here they were not different. They were perfect.

Curio ran to him first. “Charelius! You made it!”

Cheers went up, and he and Bestius were surrounded by people who wanted to hug them or simply celebrate. But even in Curio’s arms, Charelius kept looking past him, searching.

And there, walking toward him slowly, as if in a daze, was Erich.

Charelius slipped out of Curio’s grasp, pushed his way through the crowd and ran toward Erich. Only at the last moment did Erich seem to truly believe. Then he opened his arms just in time for Charelius to run into them.

“You escaped.” Erich’s voice was ragged as he held Charelius against his chest, his grasp so intense that it was almost hard to breathe. “I thought – Sebastianus and his generals – what they might have done to you –”

“They tried. But Minerva protects me.” Charelius breathed in the scent of Erich, relished the warmth and solidity of his body.

“We’re stronger than they are.”

“We’re strong enough.” Charelius clasped his hands behind Erich’s neck. “When you were fighting down there, and I thought Sebastianus might kill you himself, it was just like that old vision. The one I thought meant you were dead. I couldn’t bear it.”

“You never have to bear it again,” Erich promised.

One way or another, that was true. The battle lines were drawn now. Either they would win freedom and the full rights of citizenship for the Marked, or they would be cut down. No more waiting. No more hoping. Only the fight.

And from now on, he and Erich would be together, no matter what. That alone was a greater gift than any he’d expected to receive in his lifetime.

Erich pulled him into a kiss, deep and warm. Charelius smoothed his hands down Erich’s back to get them even closer – when a few whoops and whistles reminded Charelius that the two of them might be together, but they weren’t alone.

They pulled apart, laughing; it was worth the interruption to see what Erich looked like when he was sheepish. “It’s all right,” Charelius whispered. “Tonight when people are quieter, I can make sure they don’t see or hear a thing.”

When Erich didn’t respond at first, Charelius wondered if he’d been understood. Surely he didn’t have to spell it out more than that. But then he felt the pulling around his neck, the stretching of the slave collar Sebastianus had had welded around his throat. Once again Erich lifted it away, and as it rolled down onto the grass, Charelius found himself between laughter and tears.

Gone. That thing was gone. He would never wear the marks of a slave again.

His love for Erich had always set him free – but now, finally, their freedom could last.  

 

**

 

To Lucan’s disappointment, Marina had crept out not long after they’d finished making love. “You don’t want to stay?” he’d protested, murmuring just behind her ear, which turned out to make her shiver. “So much more I’d like to show you.”

“I want to. You know I want to. But I’m supposed to meet Emeliana or one of her slaves outside after dark, because they’re bringing me the new clothes and wig and everything. Otherwise, I think I’d stay here forever.” She kissed him with a knowing, eager passion he could hardly believe belonged to a woman who’d been a virgin two hours before. But when she pulled away, she gave him that look – the one with the stubborn set of her little chin – that meant he had no chance of talking her out of it. “Besides,” she continued, “if Junia comes back – ”

“Probably it would be highly educational, for a Vestal Virgin.” Lucan grinned.

Marina pushed at him – not hard, just in mock-punishment. “Don’t laugh at her. She saved us.”

“Hey, hey. Not laughing at the lady. Just think it’s a shame that she misses out on one of the best things in life.”

"Glad I don’t have to miss out any longer.”

“Not as long as the _amissiona_ lasts.” How long would that be? Decades? Years? Months? Would they even be able to get their hands on enough to silence her Mark ever again? Lucan hadn’t thought about their first time being the only time. He wound his hands into her hair. “Hey. You’ll come back first thing tomorrow. Right?”

Marina nodded. “Now lie down. Get some more rest. Maybe by morning you’ll be yourself again.”

Oh, the things he could do with Marina once he got his strength back. “Yes, ma’am.”

Once she was gone, he gratefully burrowed back into the covers. Damn, it smelled like sex in here. Fucking in a Vestal Virgin’s room was probably … not polite. Well, Lucan never had been known for his etiquette. At least the heavy perfume of incense in the air would mask any lingering scent of sex. As for the small stain on the blanket, well, chances were Junia wouldn’t recognize it, and maybe he’d be able to scrub it out with some water later.

Lucan slept for what seemed like a very long time, and awoke to see Junia sleeping on a mat on the floor. She slept lightly, though, and stirred when he did. Junia murmured, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” He wasn’t fine; he knew he was nowhere near being back to normal. Still, he felt _better_ , which counted for something. “Is it morning?”

“I doubt it.” She sounded groggy.

“C’mon.” Lucan tucked his loincloth around himself for some decency, then got out of bed. “You take this. I can rest on the floor.”

Junia sat up, her smile sleepy but grateful. Once again he was struck by how beautiful she was, how warm he found her. His love for Marina kept him from staring, but he couldn’t help wondering what kind of idiot race would lock a girl like this up and tell her not to have sex for most of her life. Romans. No understanding ‘em.

She began to climb into the cot, then froze. Her eyes widened. “Oh, no.”

He definitely wasn’t back to normal yet, because Lucan only heard it after she did – the clamor outside, the arguing of perhaps half a dozen people – people who wanted to come inside.

“ _No man may enter the House of the Vestals_!” That must have been the Virgo Maxima protesting. The reply: “ _We believe a man already has. We have the right to uphold the sanctity of the Temple of Vesta_!”

Lucan flexed his hands, and SNIKT, his claws were unsheathed. His skin was still slow to heal, so blood welled at the base of each one, dripping onto the floor. “Leave this to me.”

Junia shook her head. “Get out if you can. I won’t be able to escape.”

“You’re getting out of here if I have to cut every one of these guys to shreds.”

“Think.” Her voice was low and intent. “They will be Marked too, and have their full powers. You’re in no shape to fight.”

“Listen, lady, I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, but I _can’t die_.”

“You can be imprisoned. You can be tortured. You can be at Sebastianus’ mercy again.” Junia finally got to her feet. Her simple white shift slid off one shoulder. “Or you can escape. You can reach Erich and Charelius and the others, and have a chance of defeating Sebastianus once and for all. Defeating the emperor is the best way to save me. Do you understand?”

Within his mind, Lucan felt a push – her Mark of Venus, trying to make him love her enough to obey her. He didn’t think that worked, but he knew she was right about defeating Sebastianus.

_There’s a whole ceremony for executing a Vestal, and they can’t pick just any day – it has to be one that’s not sacred, one the astrologers approve. They won’t do it for days, maybe weeks. We’ll have time to get her out._

All true. Didn’t mean he liked what he was about to do.

By now the soldiers’ boots were tromping down the hallway, and they could hear the clanking of armor. Lucan’s ears pricked as he detected the unmistakable sound of a sword being unsheathed. The door swung open, and there stood that general with reddish skin and a tail – Avitus – grinning widely as he swaggered in, his guards just behind. “Look at this. A Vestal and her lover, still half naked. We very nearly caught them in the act.”

Lucan said the only thing that seemed to fit. “Fuck you.”

Then he slashed, claws raking across one of the guards’ abdomen; his reward was a scream. He kept going, refusing to look back at Junia, drawing the soldiers out with every strike, every blow. All five of them fought him all the way outside, which meant he was free to move.

Looks like their unlucky day.

Lucan brought one fist upward at the perfect angle to stab his claws through one guard’s throat, all the way into his brain. He shook that one off as he slashed sideways with his other hand, ripping the soldier’s throat open in an instant. Whatever piss-ant Marks they had weren’t helping them now.

His tail whipping behind him, Avitus glared at Lucan – then vanished in a swirl of red smoke, no doubt to arrest Junia. The other two soldiers hesitated, then ran back inside. Lucan wanted to chase them down so bad –

 _The best way to save Junia is by overthrowing Sebastianus_ , he reminded himself. And Marina had told him that the they were to follow the Arcus Neroiani out of town, which would take them into the countryside and the woods. Once he got past the city, Lucan figured he could find the rest by smell alone. Slowly, then more quickly, he started walking through the city at night. The unnatural quiet made it all seem unreal.

But the blood on his claws was real. The scent of fear coming from every single insula and house – that was real. Lucan remembered those smells mingling together from his time fighting the Romans in Gaul. It was the smell of war. 


	11. Beware The Ides of March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ROMAN NAMES
> 
> Charles = Charelius  
> Erik = Erichthonius or Magnus  
> Emma = Emeliana  
> Logan = Lucan  
> Marie/Rogue = Marina  
> Jean = Junia  
> Henry/Beast = Bestius  
> Alexander = Alexander, yay!  
> Kitty/Shadowcat = Catula  
> Scott = Scota  
> Sebastian = Sebastianus  
> Lilandra = Lilandra  
> Kurt/Nightcrawler = Curio  
> Raven = Roveca  
> Angel = Aquilina  
> Armando = Armin  
> Azazel = Avitus  
> Janos = Januarius  
> Bobby/Iceman = Iuventius  
> Ororo/Storm = Aura  
> Sean Cassidy/Banshee = Cassius  
> Betsy Braddock/Psylocke = Braddouca  
> Remy LeBeau/Gambit = Gamnet
> 
> ****

The next day was one of the happiest Erich had ever known.

He looked around their small camp at nightfall.  The dozens who had escaped had been joined by others who had been unable or afraid to join the riot outside the Coloseeum; now their numbers had swelled to a few hundred. They were young, old, Roman or foreign – unified only by their difference, their Marks. And all of them wanted nothing more than to know each other and what they could do. They showed off their wings, or their fur, everything that made them extraordinary. Unity had come so quickly. As he watched, an elderly Egyptian man extended his mothlike antennae for a tiny girl with bright blue hair, who clapped her hands in delight.

“This is what I wanted,” he said as he sat on the ground, leaning against Charelius’ shoulder. “All of us together like this. It was what I was fighting for from the start, even before I knew it.”

“You made this happen.” Charelius was beaming. “You brought us together.”

Good though this was to hear, Erich knew it wasn’t as simple as that. Charelius had done his part, and the Vestal Junia, and even that former owner of Charelius’, Lilandra. And every single one of the Marked who had come here had put their lives at risk for this same purpose.

This, too, they had all done together.

They hadn’t been able to take much, but they didn’t need much. Those who had come from Rome later had brought some supplies: blankets, simple tools, some bread. Iuventius could conjure ice, which was easily melted for all the fresh water they would need. Lucan and Bestius had gone hunting and came back with several hares and two deer, which were even now roasting over the cooking fires. People had already built places to sleep – lean-tos or makeshift tents. Erich felt as though he stood in the middle of a small village.

And Charelius stood next to him, holding his hand.

Their current safety and happiness was alluring, but Erich did not let it blind him. “The Romans will be here soon.”

Charelius shook his head. “They’re searching the far end of the woods. Not nearly close enough to find us tonight.”

“You can sense that?”

“Yes. I think I’d be able to sense before the army came near. With my Mark I could – suggest they go in another direction. Get them to look elsewhere.”

Despite everything, Erich had to chuckle in amazement. “What has happened to you? Did Minerva decide to Mark you all over again?”

“No. I think I finally understood exactly what she had given me.” After a moment, Charelius added, “And I understood that it was mine, to use as I saw fit. Before I think I always thought of it as … borrowed. Does that sound mad?”

“Not at all.” Erich understood completely. When you lived your life able to possess nothing that was truly yours, not even your name, it took a long while to claim something at last. Although he had never been this way about his own Mark of Vulcan, Erich still understood the feeling. For him, the prize he never thought he could claim had been Charelius.

But that night Erich claimed him for his own all over again. They shared a small lean-to, with even a spare blanket to hang at the front for privacy, but it was Charelius’ Mark that kept the others from hearing their groans.

“Olive oil,” Charelius panted as Erich kissed his way down his belly. “If we had some – _ohh_ – then you could have me completely.”

“I have you already,” Erich murmured as he nuzzled Charelius’ erect cock. “Let me show you.”

Even sweeter than their lovemaking was falling asleep together afterward. When they awoke the next morning, Erich didn’t care about the hard ground beneath them or the thin scratchy blankets; he could only think that finally he had been able to spend the whole night in Charelius’ arms.

Yet the new day brought new burdens.

First Cassius arrived from Rome. He was serving as their conduit for information, as his Mark was not visible, and only a handful of very close friends even knew him to be Marked. This allowed him to go and come as he would, so long as he remained careful. “Do you want the good news or the bad?” he said.

Charelius and Erich looked at each other. Finally Erich said, “The good first.”

“Apparently there are already reports from nearby cities of uprisings of the Marked. That message in our heads – they all heard you.” Cassius grinned. “And they’re with us.”

Erich’s hopes soared. If rebellion rose up throughout Italia – even throughout the empire – they had a real chance of victory. Even the mighty Roman war machine could not fight battles on every front simultaneously. Even Sebastianus only had so many legions. And yet – ”Now tell us the bad news.”

Cassius’ smile disappeared. “The astrologers said that the Vestal Junia could be executed on the Ides of March.”

“That’s only days away.” Already Charelius’ face had gone pale. “We have to get her out of there.”

“Agreed.” Although Erich barely knew Junia, he knew how much she had done for all the Marked. “But we won’t be able to overthrow Sebastianus before then. We’ll have to come up with another way.”

Charelius paused before saying, “It must be Emeliana.”

How did a man come to trust his former owner? Especially after what she had done? Erich said only, “Do you think she can do it?”

“Emeliana is twice-Marked, remember? She can be physically invulnerable, and she can cloud minds. That gives her a chance.” Yet Charelius looked more wary than hopeful. “It will mean surrendering her position in society and joining us here. Which means she can’t be the one to drug Sebastianus.”

“Roveca.” Now Erich understood Charelius’ hesitation. “You don’t want to put your sister in danger.”

After a moment, Charelius breathed out heavily. “We’re all in danger now, even Roveca, no matter where she is or what she does. She argued earlier that she should’ve taken the _amissiona_ , and she was right.”

By now Lucan had walked toward them. He wore the loose robe and tunic he’d managed to steal during his escape from Rome, and he looked more troubled than he had in a long time. “What about Marina?” he said to Cassius. “Seen her?”

“Marina is being sheltered by Emeliana –  and she’s well-disguised, too. They work together to get news throughout the city.”

“She ought to be here, with us,” Lucan said. Obviously he wanted to be the one to protect her.

“Marina’s probably safer where she is.” Erich rested one hand on Lucan’s shoulder. “While she doesn’t have her Mark, she doesn’t have the same power to defend herself. Let Emeliana shelter her for now. When the time comes to rescue Junia, the two of them will be able to bring her here together.”

Lucan didn’t look convinced, but he accepted it with a nod.

The rest of the day was about provisioning and planning. Several went to a nearby tributary of the Tiber and fished; Armin, who could dive beneath the water with his gills, brought up more than all the rest put together. Aquilina patrolled the skies. Every once in a while Charelius would go very still – a sign Erich had already learned to recognize as him listening to his Mark. Charelius had to keep nudging the Roman soldiers away, convincing them they had searched this area of the woods already, so there was no need to return.

Erich met with small groups at a time, explaining what they would have to do. “Sebastianus must come out to fight us himself, at the head of his armies.” This was hardly farfetched; Sebastianus had risen to fame as a military general, and Romans loved leaders who were also warriors. “He’ll believe his Mark is still his to command. By the time he’s learned differently, we’ll be on him.”

“He has other Marked generals and soldiers loyal to him,” Aura pointed out. “We don’t have enough _amissiona_ for them all.”

Avitus and Januarius would prove formidable enemies. Erich could not afford to underestimate them, but nor could he discourage his followers. “Many of his soldiers have already come to us. Others may desert at the time of battle. Yes, Sebastianus will have followers with great powers, but ours are greater. All of us, combined? They won’t have a chance.”

They really wouldn’t. It was staggering to think of overpowering the Roman army, but that was within their grasp.

It would have been a perfect day, save for how tired Erich felt. How the sun began to seem bright as the day went on. The way more and more people began straggling or complaining of aches.

He knew what this was, of course. Erich had been expecting this, and dreading it. Their greatest test was coming.

They would have to free themselves of the claws of _amissiona_ , and accept the terrible pain that came with it.

By sunset, Erich’s head throbbed. The dull heaviness behind his eyes was matched by the aches creeping into his joints. He knew he shouldn’t be shivering – their pocket of the woods was too warm for that – and yet he had to keep his teeth from chattering.

Others around him were beginning to suffer the same way.

“This is how it leaves all at once?” he said.

Charelius sat next to him on the ground, at the edge of their lean-to. “I’m afraid so.” His blue eyes searched Erich’s face and his body, apparently seeking signs of what was to come. “It gets worse before it gets better.”

The first nausea hit – not much, merely a queasy moment, but still unpleasant. “How much worse?”

After a deep breath, Charelius said, “Extremely.”

Erich had been told about this before, but preparing to live it was something else altogether. Worst of all was knowing that the majority of the Marked who had joined him would suffer as well.

 _We suffer to be free_ , he told himself. Yet he wondered how much consolation that thought would be at the worst.

“How long does it last?” Erich said.

“I hear it varies, depending on how long you’ve been taking _amissiona_ , and how heavy a dose.” Charelius brushed his fingers through Erich’s hair; only then did Erich realize his forehead was already damp with sweat. “For me, the pains lasted a week. Then another week to recover my strength.”

Two weeks. How were they to remain safe from Sebastianus’ soldiers for two weeks, while they were crippled with pain?

“I’ll keep the soldiers away. By now you know I can do it,” Charelius said, startling Erich. Could he hear any random thought in someone’s mind now?

Already Charelius was thinking ahead. “Enough of us are citizens or freedmen, or otherwise free of the _amissiona_. We can protect the rest of you, and nurse you, until this is over.  This movement – it’s already too big to be stopped so easily.”

“I hope you’re right.” Erich leaned his aching head against Charelius’ shoulder. The gentle touch on his brow seemed to make the pain disappear – for a moment.

 

**

 

Emeliana felt as though the pounding of her heart should be visible even through her stola. It felt as though it were trying to hammer its way out of her body to get someplace safer.

Anywhere was safer than the Domus Augustus, where the emperor awaited.

She walked between Alexander and Scota, her hidden flask of drugged wine heavy against her thigh. Alexander said, “I still can’t believe the gall of that slave. Telling every Marked person around to rise against the emperor, who is as good as a living god.”

“I still can’t believe his power.” Scota’s voice was more thoughtful. “We’ve had reports from so far away – and more coming in every hour. I think Charelius may have reached all the Marked, everywhere.”

Alexander scoffed. “Impossible. How could he do such a thing?”

 _With a little help_ , Emeliana thought. The quick flash of pride steadied her nerves. “Well, I can’t believe they intend to execute the Vestal Junia so soon. And on the Ides of March! It’s an ill-favored day. The same day the Divine Julius was assassinated.”

“That was nearly 150 years ago.” Alexander sounded bored. “Hardly worth recalling the date any longer.”

Sharply Scota said, “You’re pretending there’s nothing to the uprising precisely because you suspect it’s powerful. More powerful than you’ll be able to handle.”

Even Emeliana’s Mark of Minerva had not picked that up; her overpowering fear made it hard for her to see past her own emotions. A brother’s knowledge had done more than even the Mark of the gods.

Alexander shot back, “If we were able to handle the Germans, we can handle a few slaves.”

“Slaves chosen by the gods,” Scota replied. “Favored by them. Will you defy the gods?”

“Will you defy your emperor?”

“Enough,” Emeliana said, attempting to sound conciliatory. “Tempers are running high. You’re both loyal to Rome, as loyal as anyone could be. Alexander, I’m sure Scota is just trying to make sure we all understand the strength of the opposing forces. That’s the sort of thing soldiers need to know, isn’t it?”

Her act worked. Alexander shook his head in fond amusement, as he might have done at a dog trying to walk on two legs. “Yes, dear wife. Just the sort of thing soldiers think about.”

Scota remained quiet. The only sound now was their footsteps against the cobblestones, and the clinking of the lanterns their slaves held to light their path. Emeliana thought Scota’s silence spoke more loudly than anything else.

She knew that she was connected to all of this. He knew and yet had said nothing, either to Alexander or to Sebastianus. Did that mean Scota was on their side? Or was he merely sparing her because –

Emeliana remembered the night she’d slipped out of her house, and Scota had stopped her in the corridor. How close they had been. How much she had wanted to touch him.

 _Even if we overthrow Sebastianus, Alexander will still be my husband._ Of course Emeliana could divorce him – this was easily done – but Scota would never pledge himself to his former sister-in-law, sacrificing his relationship with his brother. Would he?

_Live through this. Get the wine to Roveca, and then get Junia out of the city. Then you can worry about your love life._

Every other time they had been ushered into the luxurious dining room of the emperor’s home, they had been greeted cordially and immediately offered wine and tempting little bites to get the meal started. Tonight they came in to find Sebastianius pacing the room, with his generals standing uneasily in front of him.

His generals, and Roveca. Emeliana met her eyes and knew that she’d received the message. They’d have to transfer the wine swiftly.

“You’re telling me that two legions swept woods hardly bigger than Rome itself, for two days, and found nothing?” Sebastianus’ hands were clenched into fists at his side. His footsteps on the marble floors echoed, emphasizing the enormity of this palace. “He’s fooling you. Charelius. A slave. Playing tricks with your heads, and you fall for them!”

Januarius ventured, “Lord and God, his Mark of Minerva is powerful – ”

“So it must be. Reports from Athens. And Lugdunum. Even there they heard him.” Sebastianus looked at the mural on one wall that depicted a map of the entire empire, with various famous battles illustrated in the places where Rome had conquered. “He thinks he can turn them all against me. I’ll see him flayed for this.”

They’d heard Charelius farther away than Greece! Emeliana resisted the temptation to smile.

Alexander stepped forward, his tone meant to soothe. “They can’t hide in the woods forever, Lord and God.”

“If they turn us back at each turn, if my centurions are worth no more than this, how are we to reach them?” Sebastianus took a deep draught of his wine.

If only she’d had the chance to drug it first. No matter. That would come soon – and if the emperor was drinking heavily to soothe his wounded pride, Roveca would be able to take advantage of it. The drunker he got, the better.

Emeliana took her place on one of the purple couches, even though no servants had come to bring anything to eat or drink. That allowed her to set the flask down behind a smaller obsidian statue, some Egyptian falcon-god looted from Memphis generations ago. She’d have a chance to hide it there soon, surely.

Just as she began trying to subtly draw Roveca’s attention, Emeliana was distracted by Alexander’s next words. “You know what area of the woods they’re in, because it’s the area they aren’t allowing you to enter.”

“Precisely,” Avitus said. “Yet if we go there, he will cloud our minds again, and we’ll forget.”

Alexander said, “Fire.”

“What?” Scota seemed caught off-guard; Emeliana was glad his shock might surprise her own.

“Fire,” Alexander repeated. “Lord and God, there are ways to drive them out without entering the woods ourselves. Ways to force them to come to you.”

Were they going to set the woods on fire? Emeliana blanched. She would have to get word to Charelius, and quickly.

“Clever thinking.” Sebastianus smiled as he put one arm around Alexander’s shoulders. “You’ve always been intelligent, Alexander. Always been loyal. That’s why I know you’re not a loathsome worthless traitor like your wife.”

The words struck her so sharply that her head jerked back. Emeliana tried to believe she’d heard him wrong, that this was only her paranoia playing tricks – but no. Her imagination could not have painted the astonishment on Alexander’s face, or the fear in Scota’s. Least of all could she have envisioned the savage glee in Sebastianus’ smile.

“Emeliana. For years you’ve met publicly with the Vestal Junia. Been a part of her secret society of traitors. Even after we seized her, you thought no one would suspect you.” Slowly the emperor walked toward her, his head cocked at an angle as though he were seeing her for the first time. “Was that arrogance or mere stupidity? The former, I suspect. Pretty heads aren’t always empty.”

Scota stepped forward. “Lord and God, the Vestal is accused of breaking her vows. Not aiding in the rebellion.”

“Even though the Marked gladiator Lucan was her lover? And Lucan is known to be one of Erichthonius’ closest compatriots? Come now, Scota. It’s obvious you have a soft spot for your brother’s wife, but don’t let it make you blind.” Sebastianus smirked as he looked at the red glass that forever covered Scota’s eyes. “Blinder, let’s say.”

Roveca came up behind Emeliana, gripping her tightly by one arm as if holding her in place. At least it was her; she would be as merciful as she could, and if any chance remained to transfer the _amissiona_ , they could take it.

Within Roveca’s mind was the question: _Should I save you now?_

Emeliana could only answer _No._ Roveca was the one who had to be protected now; she herself was no longer worth the risk.

Belatedly Alexander seemed to realize what was going on. “You think _Emeliana_ has plotted against you?” His disbelief was almost comical; even now he thought she had no concerns more substantial than buying pretty things. “Lord and God, surely there has been a mistake. Emeliana said the meetings in front of the House of the Vestals were innocent – they had nothing to do with the rebellion. Someone has falsely accused her to direct suspicion away from himself.”

“Really?” Sebastianus reached into the small leather pouch at the belt of his purple robe. “How easily you believe your wife’s protestations of innocence. That’s love for you, I suppose. So I don’t blame you for it. But I must ask you this, Alexander.  A jewel merchant came to us and confessed that the Vestal Junia had sold him items for gold. This is gold she no longer possesses, mind you, gold we assume she has given to the rebellion. What do you think she sold?”

The emperor held out his hand. In it gleamed Emeliana’s pearl earrings.

She closed her eyes. Alexander’s gasp was almost lost in the rushing of blood through her ears, the sheer physical weight of terror.

Sebastianus crooned, “I recognized these right away. I’d seen them dangling from your ears often enough, Emeliana. Dangling next to the pretty little neck – ”

Her Mark of Minerva told him what he was going to do before he did it. Without flinching from the blow coming toward her – without even seeing it, her eyes still shut – Emeliana instantly called on her Mark of Juno. When Sebastianus’ hand plunged toward her throat, it smashed into pure diamond.

It turned out pure diamond could hurt even him. The emperor cursed, and Emeliana opened her eyes to see him pulling back from her, cradling his arm to his side. There was no more need to pretend, so she flung his words back at him: “Was that arrogance or mere stupidity?”

“Search her,” Sebastianus ordered. “No doubt she’s carrying poison, if not a dagger. Probably she only insisted on coming here with you to have a chance to assassinate me.”

“That cannot be,” Alexander said, still in obvious shock. Emeliana thought it was almost worth being caught just to show her husband how badly he had underestimated her. It was Avitus who searched her, a nasty gleam in his eyes as his hands ran over her body. Within moments he had found the flask and held it up triumphantly.

“Poison, then,” Sebastianus growled. “But you’ll be the one to drink it – right here, right now. And you’ll swallow, you bitch, or I’ll have your husband’s brother burned alive in front of your eyes.”

Scota’s hand went to his helmet, not to attack but ready to defend. Alexander stared, but was clearly too deeply in shock to do anything.

Sebastianus smiled through his pain. “It’s obvious burning Scota would bother you more than my burning your husband. Obvious to everyone but him, of course. Anyway, Alexander’s too valuable to me to destroy for the likes of you.” 

Emeliana took the flask back from Avitus without hesitation. As terrified as she was, she remembered Erich’s courage in the ring, and Charelius’ endurance through servitude. She would show no less bravery than they had.

Also, by now she knew – she would die to keep Scota safe.

Never had she tasted _amissiona_ before. Strange stuff – bitter – but not overpoweringly so. It was no more than a subtly peculiar flavor to the wine. Had she been able to pour this in Sebastianus’ cup, no doubt he would have taken several swallows before putting it aside.

How terrible to discover that their plan would have worked at the very moment it was forever ruined.  

As Emeliana swallowed it down, she could feel her Mark of Juno Moneta giving way. Diamond turned into flesh once again. When she remained obviously in good health, the emperor sneered, “So, you meant to take my Mark, to kill me in some other way once I was powerless. But I am the most powerful man in the entire world, Emeliana, and you and your traitorous lot will learn it before you die.”

Sebastianus walked forward, looked into her eyes, and slapped her hard. Emeliana couldn’t help wincing, but she refused to break eye contact.

“You thought you could defeat me? A mere woman?” The emperor shook his head.

“I came close.” Her voice sounded shockingly steady, as though it were not attached to the body racked by her frantic heartbeat. “And others are ready to defeat you even now.”

“Slaves,” Sebastianus sneered.

“Slaves,” Emeliana agreed. “One of whom I owned. Each of them twice the man you are.”

Another slap, harder than the last. Her hair tumbled free from its delicate braided style, hanging loose around her face. Then Sebastianus pulled off the opal dangles clipped to her ears, yanked the matching necklace from her neck. Finally he tore off the outer layer of her stola, leaving her in only her white shift.

By now Scota was on the verge of doing something stupid to help her. Emeliana could no longer speak to him with her mind, so she looked at him and willed him to understand that she wanted him to live. Scota should live, and help the rebellion. He should bury Sebastianus, save the Marked from servitude and go on to lead a long, happy life, with a woman who could be so much better for him than she ever could.

 “Take her to a cell,” Sebastianus said. Romans had few jails; criminals were either fined or executed, not much in between. Cells were only places where people waited to die. “Once we’ve torn apart the slave rebellion, we can make an example of her, to put a final end to this business. The whole city will watch me toss her from the Tarpeian Rock.”

It was the death given to all traitors. With horror Emeliana imagined it – falling helplessly the whole long way down, watching the earth rush up to meet her, until her brains and body were dashed against the rocks below. Her blood would join the centuries of stains that had turned the stones black.

Scota stepped forward. “Lord and God, it is normally the place of the paterfamilias to see to such things. We should take Emeliana home, and offer her a chance at suicide.”

This was the traditional Roman way of dealing with deep disgrace. Emeliana did not doubt she could thrust the knife into her own gut; whatever horror she might have had at the thought was erased by the knowledge that it was at least better than being thrown down to die.

“The paterfamilias,” Sebastianus said. “Your brother, not you. So tell me, Alexander, will you do your duty and see to it that you become a widower? I really don’t care who stabs her. As long as she’s dead.”

Alexander’s expression was utterly unreadable. “Yes, Lord and God.”

“Then go home, Emeliana.” Sebastianus leaned forward and kissed her – hard, so hard it hurt – and she wanted to retch. He wiped his mouth as he stood up. “Go home and die.”

She held her head high and walked out of the Domus Augustus behind Alexander and Scota without even trembling. Emeliana was proud of that.

 

**

 

 _At least most of them are still holding on today,_ Charelius thought as he took their rations of bread and hurried back to Erich. _That gives us some time to prepare._

Thus far, the _amissiona_ ’s hold had done no more than give people headaches and chills; they didn’t feel good, but could still perform most tasks. Before more than half of their army went into two weeks of helplessness, the army of the Marked had much to do. Digging a simple latrine, building a few treetop perches for non-flying people to help with lookouts, giving instructions to those who could still pass into the city, even determining who would mind the children whose parents would be laid low by pain: All of this needed to be done before everyone’s time was taken up with nursing.

It helped Charelius to think of the logistics. Otherwise he would have to dread what was coming for Erich. Seeing him endure pain would be nearly as bad as his own pain had been.

Yet Charelius put on a smile as he came back to the lean-to, hoping to make this day as good as it could be. It was probably the last they would be able to truly share for at least a week to come. Erich sat cross-legged in front of their little shelter, rubbing the side of his head like a man who’d had too much to drink the night before. “Here you go,” Charelius said, giving both the hunks of bread to Erich. “Eat up.”

“This seems like a lot,” Erich said.

Charelius wasn’t very hungry, but he knew Erich would refuse to take his portion if he realized. “We’re doing well for bread, at least now.”

Normally Erich would have been suspicious. Today he simply began eating, too weary to think beyond the need to consume fuel. “It’s indecent, being so cheerful this early in the morning. How can you manage it?”

“You haven’t seen me many mornings,” Charelius said softly. “We’ll be able to make up for that now. Will you always be this grumpy?”

“At least. Will you always be this ridiculously pleased to see dawn?”

“If I see it with you, yes.” He dropped a quick kiss on Erich’s shoulder.

Work began as soon as everyone could manage it. The latrine took top priority; as silly as Charelius had once found Roman tidiness in such matters, he’d become used to it. The others had too, so making sure they didn’t dwell in filth was important for morale. Besides – if others became as sick to their stomachs as Charelius had when he quit taking _amissiona_ , they’d need the latrines badly, very soon. Armin used his Mark of Diana to transform his hands into broad paws ideal for digging, and Bestius already had hands very similar, which meant they had a decent-sized pit within a couple of hours. Those who didn’t dig busied themselves with other tasks, such as tending to those who had been injured during their escape from Rome, or smoking the leftover meat from the hunt so that it would keep.

The army had returned to the woods. Charelius could sense them, but knew they were at a safe distance. It was almost strange how they stayed so far away instead of probing and searching aggressively as they had before. Perhaps they were attempting to search more thoroughly than they had. From their minds he could pick up only a mixture of patience and annoyance; the soldiers had as little idea of the plan as Charelius did.

No matter. He had enough work for now, and when the Romans went on the move again, he would know it.

Only once that morning did the Romans take any aggressive move. Charelius felt it first as a bright flash of sympathetic pain. The burn of it lanced through his leg – no, someone’s leg – which was when Aura came down out of the sky, not falling but certainly not flying as smoothly as she usually did. Jutting from her thigh was an arrow.

“They shot her down!” Curio cried, instantly vanishing from his place by Charelius’ side to appear in mid-air beside Aura; he clutched her in his arms, and then they both turned into blue smoke and reappeared on the ground.

Everyone clustered around Aura, who winced even as she said, “I don’t think it’s very bad. Yet I feel so strange.”

The wound wasn’t extremely serious – in fact, the arrow had hardly penetrated into the muscle. Curio took hold of the arrow and went BAMF; instantly the arrow turned into so much blue smoke with him, reappearing a few feet away still in Curio’s hand. “See?” Charelius said as he lowered Aura into an easier sitting position. “We didn’t even have to pull it out.”

“Your Mark is even more useful than I thought,” Aura said to Curio, who blushed a deeper blue.

Now that Charelius took a closer look at the wound, he was even more encouraged. If they washed the cut with wine and applied a poultice, infection was unlikely and she would be well. But why had the blow affected her ability to fly?

Shock, Charelius thought – until Lucan took the arrow from Curio and sniffed it. He growled, “ _Amissiona_.”

“What?”

“They dipped the arrowhead in _amissiona_. Bet they soaked the shaft, too.” Logan snapped the thing in two before dropping it on the ground. “Not enough to take her down for long. Just enough to set her back.”  

Charelius went to Erich to tell him the bad news. Erich was among those weaving fishing nets; he took small scraps of metal and fashioned them into hooks. To his surprise, Erich didn’t seem worried about the newest development.

“That makes the Romans more dangerous,” Erich admitted, “but only once they hit us, and let’s face it, by the time one of their weapons hits us, we’re in trouble already.”

“Yet this means a mere scratch could take one of us down, where before we would have fought through it.”

“So we won’t get scratched. Aura will regain her ability to create winds, which means she can blow their arrows back at them. Iuventius can encase their swords in ice, so the poison can’t touch us, and the soldiers will hardly be able to lift them then.” Erich hesitated – trying not to show the pain, though it was all too clear the true agony would start soon. “And I’ll rip their shields from their hands. Send the arrowheads flying back at the archers. You might even be able to convince them not to fire at us in the first place! The Romans have no chance against us once we have our strength. None.”

It was true, wasn’t it? Yet Charelius found it so hard to believe. Maybe his years of servitude were still warping his mind. He needed to become more aggressive. More confident. In fact, he should begin by finding out what had come of Junia’s rescue so far. The Marked would not be able to begin the war in earnest until after the Ides of March, which meant Emeliana was Junia’s only hope.

Yet when Charelius reached for Emeliana’s mind, he did not hear her answer. That usually meant she was deeply asleep, though it was strange for her to sleep in the middle of the day.

Very strange.

He would have to wait.

Everything changed in the late afternoon – when, on the horizon, they saw distant smoke. 

 _Fire_ , Charelius thought. It was what they all had most feared. Even Aura might not be able to create enough rain to put out a forest fire, especially not with her abilities at low ebb. As the scent of smoke drifted through the woods, coming to them on every breeze, everyone knew they might have to run at any moment. Yet the blaze seemed contained. The Romans had not set fire to the woods; instead, they seemed to have built bonfires.

“But why?” Charelius fretted that night over their dinner of smoked venison and a bit of cheese. “Is it something religious?”

“It’s possible. Their priests tell them to do all sorts of bizarre things,” Erich said. Although he looked worried, Charelius took heart from the fact that, for the moment, Erich seemed reasonably comfortable. The afternoon’s headaches had abated for a while. At least Erich could enjoy one more good meal before the worst began.

In fact it seemed as though many people felt better than they had this afternoon. Did the pain of withdrawal come in cycles? Charelius only remembered it steadily getting worse, but his memories of that time were fogged by delirium.

Then Lucan shouted, “Bastards! Fucking Roman _bastards_!”

Everyone stared, and Charelius and Erich exchanged a look before rising to their feet. Already Lucan was coming toward them, his expression dark. “What is it?” Charelius said.

Lucan laughed – the sound strange and hollow. “They’ve got cedar on the fire. Cedar smells strong. So strong it masks almost anything else. That’s why I only just now realized we’re fucked.”

“I don’t understand,” Charelius said.

But Erich had spent more time with Lucan. He knew Lucan’s Mark better. The realization coming to Erich now was so devastating Charelius could feel his gut clenching before he even heard the news.

“ _Amissiona_ ,” Erich whispered. “They’re burning _amissiona_ in the fires. You don’t have to drink _amissiona_. It also works if you breathe it in.”

Of course. Lucan’s cigars.

The Romans had poisoned the very air. Had turned their own lungs against them.

The way everyone had begun feeling better in the afternoon – it was because they were being dosed with _amissiona_. Slowly, gradually, so that they’d hardly noticed. Charelius had thought the Romans strangely thoughtless, and the others far less troubled; he had never asked himself if his Mark of Minerva was gradually fading.

It wasn’t gone yet. But it would go, along with everyone else’s Marks.

They were defenseless, and in the morning, the Romans would come.

 

**

 

This main room of this house had always seemed beautiful to Scota, when Emeliana had been here – its white columns and soft candlelight somehow a mirror for her beauty.

Now Emeliana was locked into a small storage room at the very back of the house, where they usually kept the amphorae. The house now felt empty and cold.

“What did Sebastianus mean by that?” Alexander demanded. He paced in front of the brazier that provided the room’s only heat. In the shadows lurked the house slaves, supposedly waiting in case their dominus needed anything, but really wondering what would become of their kind domina. “Saying that my wife would care more about your life than mine? What’s been going on behind my back?”

“Nothing.” The weight of truth was in his voice, and Scota knew Alexander could hear it, even now. “We have never betrayed you. I would never betray you. But Emeliana is my friend, and you … it seems to me that you hardly know her.”

Bitterly, Alexander laughed. “I must not have known her. Plotting against Sebastianus? Even after he’s shown us such favor? She must have gone mad.”

“You know that’s not true.” Scota had tried rational persuasion with his brother for weeks now; it was past time for the harsh truth. “Many of the Marked disagree with the way Sebastianus treats us. The way he sets himself up as another god instead of one of us, how he attempts to control us all – ”

Alexander shook his head. “He is our emperor! It is his right to control us! Scota, he is a _god_!”

“Not until death,” Scota shot back. “And the emperor may tax us, he may pass laws on what we shall wear and where we shall go, but no emperor has ever attempted to turn free men into his personal slaves in all but name. That is what Sebstianus has done to the free Marked. He keeps the enslaved Marked in bondage, so they will remain under control, instead of honoring the favor the gods have shown them.”

“You agree with Emeliana, then. You would have plotted against the emperor if only she’d given you the chance.”

Scota stepped closer, using the slight advantage of height he had to make his older brother listen. “You’re a smart man, Alexander. Too smart not to have seen this for yourself. Why do you fight it? What does Sebastianus hold over you?”

Alexander seemed to have no words. After a moment he sat down heavily on one of the couches. A slave hurried to his side with a glass of wine – no doubt hoping to soothe his master’s anger, for Emeliana’s sake. Alexander said, “I felt like he was the first one who truly saw us. Who recognized everything we could do.”

“Maybe he was.” Even now, Scota could not forget Sebastianus’ long and honorable service in the army. “But power has twisted him. The soldier you first knew – I don’t know that anything of him is left.”

The futility of it seemed to settle on Alexander all at once, like a great weight. “What would you have me do? Go plead for Emeliana’s life, on my knees?”

 _If it would save her, yes!_ Scota would have gone begging in an instant. But it wouldn’t save her. Sebastianus’ wrath was too great.  

They needed larger solutions. Like, for instance, another emperor.

“With Emeliana – wait. Simply wait. You are within your rights to give her time to commit honorable suicide. That buys us time, time you must use to get word to Trajan,” Scota said. “He’s the only general with the power and popularity to challenge Sebastianus, and he’s always respected the Marked. Remember, he freed his own Marked slaves years ago.”

“Trajan’s not Marked himself.”

“No. But that may help him see things more clearly.”

Scota had served under Trajan for a time, and had been deeply impressed by his intelligence, his charisma, his sense of humor, and his fair-mindedness. Had Domitian been assassinated at a different time, when Trajan had been close to Rome and Sebastianus far away, Scota had no doubt Trajan would have been named emperor in his stead.

He felt Rome would be well led by Trajan. If he were wrong – well, at the very least, Trajan had to be better than Sebastianus.

“I don’t have the rank to summon Trajan back to Rome,” Scota finished. “But you do.”

Alexander shook his head. “Trajan’s on the other side of the Alps. It would take him at least a week to get here with his troops, maybe more.”

Scota’s hopes soared. Finally the bonds of loyalty between Alexander and Sebastianus had broken; now all he had to do was get his brother to stop mourning and start taking action. “Listen to yourself. _A week._ One week and we can liberate every Marked person in the empire!”

“That’s not enough time for those people in the woods.” Alexander’s voice was hollow. “The ones I told Sebastianus how to defeat.”

A hard thing to face, and yet … “We cannot think about the ones we won’t save. Only about the ones we will.”

 

**

 

They tried to find a way to douse the bonfires, but the power of the smoke kept their Marks from helping them. They thought of moving camp and escaping if they could, but it soon became apparent that the Romans had surrounded the woods, waiting for them to emerge in any direction. With their Marks fading quickly, there was no hope of building substantial barricades or trenches to hold the Romans back, not in time.

No hope at all.

“Forgive me,” Erich said.

The Marked had gathered around their fires, late on what they knew would be their last night of freedom, and probably of life. No one had spoken accusing words; no one looked at Erich with anything but understanding. Their trust made this even harder to bear.

He continued, “We rose too soon, because of me. The fault is mine. All of you have been valiant, and I feel sure the gods will honor your courage. But only the gods could save us now.”

“It’s not your fault.” Bestius stood, his blue fur gleaming in the firelight. “The rest of us should have seen the possibilities earlier. Begun planning, come together. If we had, we could have been ready for anything Sebastianus could do. We are all to blame.”

Young Catula quietly added, “The emperor is the one who did this. He’s the only one worth blaming.”

Erich felt he would never have stopped blaming himself had he lived another hundred years, but his private feelings were not important now. He took a deep breath. “Those of you who have children, if you wish to send them out in the morning, no doubt the Romans will spare them.” The bitter words _to serve Sebastianus_ went unsaid. “No one will judge you if you wish to accompany them, or if others want to surrender in the hopes of saving your lives. There is no shame in hoping to live, and perhaps fight another day.”

“No,” Lucan said from the back. His features were stark in the firelight and shadows. “I’ve been under the Roman yoke most of the last decade. I’ll be damned if I’ll serve under it one day more.”

Murmurs of assent echoed around the group … but Erich could see a few parents hugging their children tightly, thinking hard. He found himself remembering Masala, and a long ago day when his parents had wanted him to die before becoming a slave.

For so many years, he’d believed they had been right. Now he could only think that this would have denied him the chance to know Charelius. Even the worst life offered some moment of beauty. Of joy.

In the cold dark at the very edge of the gathering, Charelius stood with tears in his eyes. If Erich could hardly endure this, gentle Charelius had to be in hell. Did enough of his Mark remain to let him feel the anguish of those around him? Erich had to hope not. For tonight, they needed to be no more than men.

By the time the two of them crawled into their small shelter, they could hear the muffled sobs of people crying around them. Erich folded Charelius into his arms and kissed his hair. “One thing.” Erich’s voice was ragged. “I didn’t think of _one thing_ , and I have damned us all.”

“Will you stop taking all of this upon yourself? We all made the choice to join in this fight. All of us, together.” Charelius tightened his embrace around Erich’s waist.

“But I was the one who mocked Sebastianus. Who made him hold the games before we were ready.”

“Even if we had been more prepared – would we have thought of this?” Charelius sighed. “They poisoned the air. The very air. The Romans own everything in the world, it seems.”

Erich’s foolish hopes of liberty seemed to lie around him like shards of broken glass, cutting him no matter which way his thoughts turned. “Maybe we were always ill-fated. Our stars misaligned.”

“Fortuna gave us each other.” Charelius pulled back so that Erich could see his face, his gentle smile. “That’s more luck than some people get in a lifetime.”

Erich had always wondered what he would have done, if he’d known that final night at the house of the Emelianii was the last he and Charelius would spend together. So now he knew precisely how these final hours should go. “I want to love you until dawn,” Erich murmured, cupping Charelius’ face in his hand. “It doesn’t matter if we sleep or not, as long as your body is next to mine. And I will not let go of you until the moment the Romans tear you from me.”

Charelius kissed him tenderly. Then, to Erich’s surprise, he smiled crookedly.  “I coaxed a bit of this from one of the newcomers this morning. Thought it would be a nice surprise for you tonight.” From the pouch at his belt he produced a small earthenware bottle, which Erich realized would hold olive oil. “At least we can be together completely.”

For some time now, Erich had been considering this. There would be no other time to offer, so he spoke. “Then I want you to take me. To be inside me.”

At first Charelius could only stare. Romans found it so disgraceful for a man to play the passive role for another; Charelius had been forced into it as a slave, but had given it to Erich as a gift. Never had he mentioned – or, apparently, even dreamed – that Erich might do the same for him. When Charelius spoke, the words came haltingly. “You know you don’t have to.”

“I want to.” Seeing how it could please Charelius had made Erich curious, but by now his need to do this went beyond the thought of his own pleasure. “I want to have been with you every way I could. And you – you’ve never played the active role, have you? Never been inside someone else?” Charelius should get to experience that, at least once.

“No, I haven’t, but – ”

Erich kissed Charelius, long and deep. When their mouths parted, he whispered, “Do you want to?”

Charelius nodded. He was shaking.

“Then take me.”

Slowly Charelius lifted Erich’s tunic from his body, then untied the cloth around his waist. The air was colder now that Aura’s Mark had been stolen and the woods were again in the grip of winter. But Erich did not mind shivering, not as he stretched out on the ground in front of Charelius.

One more kiss. Then Charelius removed his own clothes, and Erich could run his hands along his thighs and his belly. Beneath his fingertips Erich could feel the edges and dips of old scars – the blows every slave wore, the same ones that marked his own back and arms. The chafed places around Charelius’ neck from his slave collar had not had a chance to heal.

Charelius pressed his lips to Erich’s breastbone, then to the patch of skin below his navel, where the hair became thick again. His breath was warm against Erich’s cock, and then his tongue circled the head, hot and wet.

For all Erich wanted to give Charelius tonight, he was greedy, too. He arched his hips up eagerly, all but begging Charelius to take him into his mouth, which he did.

Everything else went away. The cold, the fear, the misery of their failure – nothing was left but the heat of Charelius’ mouth and the way he caressed Erich with his tongue. As he began to suck, Erich pushed himself upward, hoping to get just a bit deeper –

Charelius almost seemed to swallow him then, taking Erich in so far that he felt as if he were buried in his throat. When Charelius took his balls firmly in hand, massaging them at just the right tempo, Erich’s heartbeat quickened. He could hear only the hum of blood in his ears, and the slick wet sounds of Charelius’ mouth around his cock.

 _We should have had a thousand nights like this_ , he thought in a daze. _Forgive me, my love._

But Charelius’ Mark had been all but silenced, and he could no longer hear the words in Erich’s mind.

As his pulse quickened, the tip of Erich’s cock seemed to grow even more sensitive, so that every move Charelius made was even more incredible. Erich began pumping upward, almost past the point of restraint – especially as he felt the pleasure welling up, readying –

_Yes._

At the last moment he jerked out of Charelius’ mouth. It took nothing away from the way his whole body gave into it, sweeping away everything else.

When Erich could focus again, he felt Charelius wiping away the come spattered across his belly. As Charelius moved to clean his own chest, he whispered, “You can do the same for me, if you want. Or just your hands. You needn’t – ”

Erich pushed himself upright to kiss Charelius, hard. Their mouths parted, and he said, “Please.”

Only then – only when Charelius understood how badly he needed this – did Erich see his answering desire. Charelius had wanted this too, had wanted to play the man for one time in his life, and for him Erich would open himself completely.

As Charelius stretched out beside Erich, he whispered, “Remember how I taught you to use your hand?”  He kissed Erich’s shoulder. “Now I’m going to use mine on you.”

Erich nodded and lifted his knees. Surely it would feel strange, but he could accept that.

Then Charelius slicked his fingers with the oil, and brought his hand to …

 _Oh._ Erich’s eyes widened. He had never realized it would feel so good to have fingertips rubbed against his ass. That his body would respond to touch and moisture there.

“That’s good?” Charelius was smiling. Either a little of his Mark lingered, or Erich’s surprised pleasure was written on his face. “Here.”

A finger slipped inside. At first all Erich could think was that it felt very strange – the sensation, the way his legs were so obscenely splayed out, all of it. Then Charelius began moving his finger, as if in slow lazy spirals, and an unexpected shiver went through Erich as he felt his body began to relax.

More pressure. Erich didn’t understand why he suddenly felt more full – why it suddenly felt even better – until he realized Charelius had slid another finger inside. Charelius’ expression was serious, concerned, but it seemed to Erich that he might be doing everything right.

Charelius’ hand pulled out, went back in, now more slick with the oil. For the first time, the fingers began to move back and forth, slowly finding a rhythm that mimicked sex. _This is how it will be,_ Erich told himself as he allowed his body to be spread even wider. _It’s going to feel good._

 Another finger, and with it a flicker of pain, but that was over in an instant. Charelius probed deeper into him, and Erich tilted his body to accept every movement of his hand.

“It ought to be all right now,” Charelius whispered. They had to be quieter tonight. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then roll over for me. On your hands and knees, perhaps. That’s easiest on you.”

Erich did as Charelius asked, bracing himself. For one instant he imagined how he must look, and the image brought back all the old prejudices – that this was ridiculous and unmanly. But then Charelius’ hands closed around his hips, firm and possessive, and Erich put everything else aside. This was for Charelius, and nothing he did for Charelius could be wrong.

He felt the head of Charelius’ cock pushing against him, pushing harder – and then Charelius thrust inside him.

For an instant the pain stiffened all Erich’s muscles, made him think he’d made a mistake. As Charelius remained still within him, though, Erich began to get used to the sensation, and his body relaxed again as the pain ebbed.

It was odd to feel so – full inside. But not bad. Not bad at all.

Erich managed to whisper, “How does it feel?” Charelius had never had his cock inside anyone before this.

“It’s so – _hot_ ,” Charelius breathed. “So much hotter than inside your mouth, and the tightness – it’s so good.”

He remained still, though, no doubt out of consideration for Erich. So Erich was the one who rocked backward, giving Charelius permission to begin.

Charelius began to move – slow, careful strokes. Erich breathed hard through his mouth as he became accustomed to this … began to _like_ it …

Then Charelius thrust in deeper, and the pressure ignited something deep within Erich that produced the most intense pleasure he’d ever felt.

He turned his head to muffle his hoarse cry against his own arm. Charelius paused, just when Erich least wanted him to. “Erich?” Charelius sounded breathless. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Keep going, keep going – “

Finally Charelius understood and started to move with abandon, his cock sliding so deeply into Erich that it was hard to keep from crying out again. But every single thrust just made it better; through the blur of arousal, Erich was astonished to realize his cock was getting hard again already.

_I could come from this. Just from this. Why do they tell men not to be the passive partner? It’s even better than being inside Charelius, and I thought nothing could be better than that –_

Charelius’ movements quickened, and his breath began to come in shuddering gasps. Erich pushed back against him, trying to eke out the last drop of pleasure before Charelius finished. His body responded. His cock swelled, tightened – and Erich came again, spattering against the ground as he groaned low and deep. Hardly a second later, Charelius plunged deeper into him than ever before and went still. Warmth pooled inside Erich, telling him Charelius had finished too.

At first they remained in place, breathing hard. Despite the cold, sweat had dampened both Erich’s skin and Charelius’ hands against him. When Charelius pulled out, he carefully held a cloth to Erich to clean him. Only once they’d shunted themselves over to lie on their blanket, covering themselves against the chill, did Charelius realize. “You came? I didn’t even touch you.”

“It feels so good.” Erich smiled at Charelius, still more amazed than delighted. “Better than anything else.”

“I was going to say the same about being inside you. It was perfect, Erich. You’re perfect.”

Perfect. They were in the cold and the dark, hardly covered from the winter by blankets, fully aware that tomorrow they were likely to die at the hands of the Romans.

None of that could touch what they had together. Who they were together. Erich told himself that as he folded Charelius against his chest. It was his only comfort.

 

**

 

Lucan squinted at the dawn and wished he had something to drink.

Around him, people were making their choices. Many of the parents were preparing to walk out and attempt to bargain for their children’s lives. A few small groups huddled near makeshift altars where a few squirrels and field mice had been sacrificed. Most readied themselves for battle in the hopes that they would die quickly at the end of a Roman sword instead of spending terrible hours or days suffering on a cross.

He didn’t have the option of dying. Lucan wasn’t sure what the Romans would come up with for him now, but he was sure it was going to be pretty fucking bad.

Tomorrow was the Ides of March. The Romans would kill Junia in whatever sick ritual they had. For her sake, Lucan hoped it was quick. Maybe she’d be lucky enough to die faster than the rest of them would.

Charelius and Erich finally climbed out of their lean-to. Idly Lucan wondered if they thought they’d been quiet last night. Hardly. Then again, virtually everyone in the entire camp had been huddled with the people they cared about – or even people they’d just met – either crying, talking or fucking. Those two hadn’t been the loudest.

Lucan didn’t begrudge them their last night of love. But the sounds of sex – the silhouettes he’d seen in candlelit tents, of bodies bending toward each other, moving against each other – they had made him think of Marina.

If the gods had done nothing else for Lucan, they had at least made sure that Marina could live through this. Right now she was somewhere safe, disguised, probably given money. As long as she wore gloves, which wouldn’t stand out in winter, Marina could go where she would, and hopefully she would get the hell out of Rome. It helped him to think of her living through this.

_But where’s she gonna go? She’s got no friends outside of this camp, or some Roman jail cells. Her family sold her off. Her Mark will come back if it hasn’t already, which means she’s never gonna get to touch anyone, be touched –_

The one hour he’d gotten to make love to Marina came back to Lucan so vividly that he imagined he could taste her open mouth. He closed his eyes, the better to sink into the memory.

Reminiscence could only comfort him for so long. All around him, those few who were surrendering had begun to walk away. Those who remained stood awkwardly, often at angles as though they were already in pain. Fear did that to you. Knotted your gut.

Charelius was calmer than most. “We should wait until we’re sure the others have reached the Romans,” he said as he sipped some of the last of the water. “Let them strike what bargains they can for their children. Then we can go out.”

“And then we attack,” Erich said. His brows were a slash across his face, one determined line. “We go after them with everything we have.”

Which wasn’t much. Charelius would probably have to go after the Romans with a kitchen knife. But Lucan couldn’t afford to care a whole lot about how everybody else was going to die.

“Suits me fine,” he said, holding up one hand. “The _amissiona_ might take away most of my healing and my sense of smell and all the rest – but those sons of bitches can’t take my claws.”

In the end, the Romans chose the hour. From a great distance they could hear the tromping of boots and the clanking of armor; that gave people time to grab what weapon they could, or make a last prayer to the gods who had marked them. Lucan breathed in faster and faster, trying to bring on the crazed battle-rage that sometimes came to him in a good fight.

Been a while since his last good fight. At least he’d get to kick some Roman ass one more time.

When the troops came into the clearing, Lucan leaped forward, extending his claws. The bone ripped through the skin of his hands, so they were streaked with blood as he slashed one Roman, and another, and another. He matched their blood with his own. Saw exposed ribs, collarbones, skulls.

Others fought as hard as he did. From the corner of his eye, he saw Erich had managed to steal one Roman’s sword and was unleashing all his gladiatorial skills. In another instant, he saw Bestius sinking his teeth into a man’s shoulder, and heard the answering howl of pain. There was Aquilina kneeling over a downed centurion to bash his head with a rock – and there was Charelius, who’d put some heavy rocks in a cloth and swung it into men’s heads so hard they instantly went down.

They were _good_. They were so fucking good. If they’d had their Marks, the entire Roman army couldn’t have stopped them.

But they didn’t have their Marks, and there were so many Romans. Too many.

Lucan was one of the last to fall. As he sliced through one last Roman’s jugular, something hard slammed into his back – a shield, probably. He fell with his whole weight, and his head struck a rock. The impact would have killed most men, but Lucan simply lay there, too stunned to move further, looking at his fallen comrades. They should have been an army. Maybe they had been for a few minutes.

Now they were worse than slaves. Now they were prisoners, destined to die.

 

**

 

The next morning, in the hours just after dawn, Marina leaned against the wall of a neglected, crumbling temple and tried to stop crying. If she sobbed too loudly during the ritual, she would be noticed, and if she were recognized, she would have to die too. At the moment it felt as though she wouldn’t mind dying, but Marina knew someone had to keep going, if for no other reason than to tell the true story of their uprising. Of what Erich and Charelius and Junia had been fighting for, and what had been lost.

Everything had been going so well. Emeliana had given Marina gold coins, a few stolae in soft colors that were by far nicer than anything else she’d ever worn, and a wig in a deep red shade, probably made from the hair of captured Germans. She’d been able to rent a room at an inn where nobody had recognized her, been able to eat her fill.

And her Mark remained wonderfully silent. Marina had taken advantage of this – taking the hands of those she met, playing clap-slap games with little children in the street, even holding the innkeeper’s baby for a while and marveling at its soft skin and its weight. The simple pleasure of touch had been denied her for so long that she reveled in it now.

She’d intended to take even more advantage of the ability to touch. Once she could be of no more help to Emeliana, or the battle had been fought and won, Marina had wanted to go to Lucan and make love to him over and over again.

Instead the Marked had been captured. Starting tonight, they would be executed. Emeliana was no longer free to leave her house, and the servants whispered that if she did not commit suicide, her husband would kill her himself. Marina had no idea where to turn after this, or what to do. She only knew that her hands and feet had begun to feel slightly prickly – as though feeling were coming back after extreme cold – and she suspected that was her Mark reawakening. Within another day, no doubt it would be back, sealing her off from the world again.

And this morning, the Vestal Junia would die.

Little though Marina wanted to see it, she forced herself to go to the forum where the ritual would be held. _If all I can do is bear witness_ , she thought, _then I have to see it all. Anyway, Junia deserves to have at least one person here who cares about her, and knows the truth._

The crowds were not as bloodthirsty as Marina had expected. Instead of the lusty cheers she’d heard in the Circus Maximus or the Colosseum, the only sounds in the forum were people shuffling from foot to foot, or coughing, or crying. If anyone in this crowd believed Junia guilty of breaking her vow of virginity, it did not change the horror they felt at the thought of what would happen here today. Nobody wanted to look directly at the pit in the earth that had been dug, or the stone sarcophagus within it that lay open, awaiting its victim.

Like all Romans, Marina knew that Vestal Virgins were too sacred ever to be put to death. No knife could be thrust into her body; no sword could sever her head. So when a Vestal had to die, the Romans left that death to the gods.

They buried Vestals alive.

Marina drew her soft blue palla slightly over her face as the procession arrived. Leading it were the other Vestals, all of whom were tear-streaked and shaking. Behind them the priests, chanting and holding their censers of incense. Then Junia, wearing only a simple white robe; her eyes were dry, her head held high. Among this entire crowd, she alone seemed to be at peace.

Behind her marched soldiers who would force her into her coffin if she resisted – or kill anyone who attempted to help her.

 _How is she so brave?_ Marina’s entire body shook, and she thought she might vomit. _How can Junia stand it?_

Yet Junia stood there calmly, her white stola and red hair bright against the winter-gray stones and sky. She held out her hands for the two gifts she was given – a flask of water and a bit of bread, in case she grew hungry or thirsty before she suffocated. Giving her sustenance preserved the illusion that the Romans were not executing Junia, simply turning her over to the justice of the gods. Junia held out her hands for the gifts and bowed her head.

The chants of the priests grew louder. Junia stepped into the pit, into her sarcophagus, and sat down. Clutching her flask and bread, she slowly leaned back until she lay in the stone coffin. It was hardly big enough for Junia’s body, much less air. She would suffocate within an hour or two. 

Some soldiers heaved up the stone lid of the sarcophagus and settled it down. Marina caught one last glimpse of Junia’s face, then wished she hadn’t, because that was the only moment she saw Junia look afraid.

The stone landed with a heavy thunk. Wailing broke out on the edges of the crowd. Yet the priests chanted on. Through eyes blurred with tears, Marina watched the soldiers shovel dirt onto the sarcophagus, burying it entirely. As soon as the dirt had been packed down, they would begin to lay down paving stones; the mortar would be in place before lunch.

By tomorrow people would be expected to walk over Junia’s grave as though it were any other road. As though she had never been executed, had never lived at all.

 

**

 

The first concrete memories Charelius had of Rome were slave pens much like the one he was in now. Cages, really, made of rough-hewn wood – room enough for perhaps ten people, which meant twenty or so would be squeezed inside. Right now someone’s elbow jammed into his midsection, and he found it hard to breathe. Still, Charelius was glad to be here, because Erich was just behind him. Amid this mass of sweaty, crying people, he and Erich kept their hands clasped.

_They will tear him from me. Just as they tore away my sister. But I will never get Erich back._

Where was Roveca now? Charelius knew she could not come to him here; huge bonfires of _amissiona_ burned hardly thirty feet away, and the smoke sometimes blew so thickly across them that he coughed until he could hardly breathe. No Marked person loyal to the emperor would go anywhere near such a thing, and Roveca’s only chance of survival was convincing Sebastianus she remained loyal. If she tried to come here, her powers would be lost, her disguises destroyed, and she would only be executed with the rest of them.

 _This war is bigger than just us,_ Charelius reminded himself. Other Marked people were rising up all over the empire. Their deaths would not end the rebellion they’d just unleashed. Roveca would be able to fight alongside them, and her nearness to the emperor might be Sebastianus’ downfall yet. 

It helped to think of her surviving. Going on. Otherwise Charelius wasn’t sure he could have borne watching the scene in front of him; the Romans in their depthless cruelty were forcing their captives to watch them build the crosses.

Hammering, the shouts of soldiers, and the soft sounds of earth being dug out as yet another cross was finished. They were building these crosses in the Chi shape, like the numeral ten. Apparently those were the quickest to construct, particularly when they were making more than a hundred at once. By now almost all of them had been completed, which meant soon their crucifixions would begin.

Crucifixion was one of the worst deaths. You lay down on a cross so soldiers could bind you at the wrists and feet; then the cross was hoisted upright so you could begin to die. If your legs were broken or your body slashed by swords, you would die after seven, eight, perhaps ten hours. Such injuries were a sign of mercy. Without them, dying on the cross could take days. Racked by hunger and thirst, you suffocated slowly, drowning under the weight of your own body.

Charelius knew the Romans would not break their legs. Sebastianus would want them to suffer as long as possible.

In the next cage over, Curio was pressed against the slats; when their eyes met, Curio tried to smile. “You were right, so long ago,” he called. “When you said no one could keep me, and I should hurry back to Germany.”

“At least we had a good life in Hispania,” Charelius answered. “A year and a half when we lived as we should have lived.”

“And you had your poems, and I my acrobatics. What more could anyone ask? You are right; I must be grateful for what we were given.”

It was so hard to watch Curio, who had always been so playful and carefree, as he stood there with his tail drooping. Hard to see all of the Marked people Charelius had come to care about: Lucan, who was crammed into a corner with blood caked on his arms and his slashed hands. Aura, whose white hair was matted with mud. Iuventius, cradling Catula against his shoulder as she wept. In the near distance burned the _amissiona_ bonfires, which would be stoked until the last of them had died.

Charelius reminded himself that this was the last he would ever have to bear. Their suffering and servitude would at least end. Soon they would find one another on the other side of the Styx, and they could be together forever. Though poor Lucan would not even have that. The Romans had already made it clear they were going to hang him on a cross – and leave him there forever, always dying, to serve as a reminder of what happened to those who defied Rome.

Erich leaned his head against Charelius’. They could not quite face each other, crammed as they were into this overcrowded cage, with Erich mostly behind him. But it was such a comfort to simply be close as long as they could. Would the Romans hang them on nearby crosses, so they could see and speak to one another during the long days of their death? Charelius did not know whether that would sustain him or be the worst torture imaginable. Then he decided he would rather see Erich; as awful as it would be to watch Erich die, it would be so much more terrible to know he was dying nearby where Charelius could not help, not even with kind words.

The sun was low in the sky – the final hour before sunset – when the soldiers began opening the cages and dragging them out in groups of four or five. Not even his own mortal terror could numb Charelius to the sight of Bestius being tied down, spread-eagled, on the cross where he would die.

Then the soldiers came for him.

Charelius tightened his hand around Erich’s as they were both pulled out of their cage. As the centurions tried to separate them, Charles held on even tighter, with both hands now. Erich’s face was drawn and desperate; a soldier had his other arm, but he held on to Charelius with his one free hand as well as he could.

“Have some pride,” one of the soldiers sneered. Easy to say if you weren’t the one about to be crucified. And it was not death Charelius was fighting. He just didn’t want to let go of Erich.

His entire life, he’d been haunted by the memory of his sister being torn away from him. Even though Charelius knew he could have done nothing, he always blamed himself for not hanging tighter. Not having that one second more. So he clung to Erich with the literal last of his strength, wanting to be near him to the absolute last moment.

Both sweat and tears had drawn lines in the dust on Erich’s face. Wincing with pain as his other arm was pulled back, Erich managed to say, “I love you,”

Charelius would have said the same, but that was the moment the soldiers pulled them apart, and he went staggering backward, falling into their merciless grip, never to touch Erich again.

 

**

 

Scota knew he was taking a risk coming here. He was not expected and almost certainly would not be welcome at first. If they did not believe his reasons, they might even kill him.

It didn’t matter. If his plot against Sebastianus went according to plan, this would be the least dangerous thing Scota would do for a long time to come.

He hurried through the streets in the hour before sunset, walking toward an insula he had furtively watched Emeliana enter the day before, only hours before the cruel invitation from Sebastianus. His cloak was drawn closely around him, both because of the cold and because he wanted to remain anonymous – but Scota knew his helmet was difficult to disguise even with a hood. The last thing he wanted to do was endanger those he was about to meet, not least because he suspected they were Emeliana’s best chance to live.

In every insula, the owner or some sort of a manager lived on the ground floor; their rooms were easily found, as they would be the best in the whole building. Scota located the woman who ran the place, and sure enough, a couple of sesterces were enough to get her to point out which door yesterday’s visiting noblewoman had gone through. He ascended the narrow earthenware steps, readied himself, and knocked.

From within, he heard nothing for long moments, until a man’s gruff voice said, “Who is it?”

“A friend,” Scota said. “Someone who wishes to help, and needs help in return.”

After a moment the door opened. Scota was startled to see someone he knew, the black-haired, bearded guard who always stayed so near Sebastianus – but that was her false face, wasn’t it? This was Roveca, Marked by Janus. And sitting in the corner was a red-haired girl he did not recognize, wearing a pale blue stola.

“You’re Alexander’s brother.” Roveca’s voice was hard. “Has he murdered Emeliana yet?”

“Not yet. With your help, he never will.” Scota knew he had to convince them both, quickly. These two women were his only attachment to the Marked uprising, and probably two of the only ones who would survive. They would be critical to setting the tone when Trajan arrived to take over, and already he could see that killing Sebastianus was likely to be Roveca’s job. He sat down at the small table, pushed back his hood, and began. “Very soon, within a week, there will be a serious challenge to Sebastianus’ power. The Marked should play a role in helping the new emperor take over. If we do, his gratitude will be worth far more than Sebastianus’ ever was.”

“So we trade one emperor for another. One set of promises for another,” Roveca said. “Romans. I don’t trust any of you.”

Scota pressed on. “As for Emeliana’s death, we can stall. We can say she is starving herself instead of dying by the blade.” This was an honorable form of suicide, if less common than stabbing one’s self with a knife. Besides, for all Scota knew, Alexander really wasn’t allowing the slaves to feed her – but he suspected her slaves were loyal enough to break that rule. He intended to break it himself. “Certainly we can keep Emeliana alive long enough for the general Trajan to enter Italia. Then Sebastianus will have too much to handle, too many battles to fight. We can get herout. The _amissiona_ will have worn off then, so she can fight with us on Trajan’s side – ”

“You’re talking about saving someone you care about, while everyone we care about is being killed,” said the red-haired girl. A lock of silvery hair escaped at her temple, which was when Scota realized her complicated hairstyle was a wig –and with a shock realized this was Marina, Marked of Pluto. “Don’t misunderstand me. I want to save Emeliana if we can. But tonight – tonight they’re hanging our friends on crosses to die, and I can’t think about anything but that.”

“And my brother,” Roveca whispered. “We found each other after a lifetime apart, only so I would lose him again.”

Impatience grated within Scota – _think of the future, we must protect those to come after us!_ – but he checked himself. Their fear and grief had to be even greater than his own for Emeliana, and at least Emeliana had some hope. The Marked rebels had none.

Marina finally looked Scota squarely in the face. “Do you know where the crucifixions are being held?”

“Yes.” Only one of the fields immediately outside the city was large enough for a mass execution on this scale – enormous even for the Roman Empire. And of course it would be near a busy road, so that all could see the doomed and dead, to learn from their example.

“Then take me to where they are.” Marina rose from her seat, and Roveca nodded, obviously ready to come along. “I need to see Lucan again. And Erich, and Charelius – all of them.”

Somehow he had to dissuade them. Roveca and Marina were clearly deeply shaken, perhaps near the breaking point; already Scota sensed they were courageous women, but even the bravest people could only endure so much. And what they wanted to do now would destroy anyone. Watching people die by crucifixion was a horrible sight, even when they were your enemies. To see your friends, your beloved, your brother on the cross …

Scota imagined Alexander up there and instantly understood. No matter how ghastly the sight would have been, he would have wanted to be there for Alexander. That would be the only thing that mattered.

He stood. “Come with me.”

The sun had not quite gone down, but the shadows were long and the cold deeper. Fewer people than usual walked along Rome’s streets; the unrest and the horrific execution of a Vestal had cast a pall over the entire city, over each person within. _Good,_ he thought, _fewer who will recognize us later._ Scota guided the three of them toward the road he thought would get them out of town the quickest. As they entered one plaza, though, Marina gasped. Too late, Scota realized they were very near where the Vestal Junia had been buried today.

“Keep walking,” Roveca said. “We can’t think of the dead. We have to get to those still living, while we can.”

But they had only taken a few more steps when the ground began to move. To shake. To break apart from within.

 _Earthquake!_ Scota thought. He’d been in a small one in Lusitania once and had never forgotten the strangeness of the earth shaking under his feet. This was on an entirely greater order of magnitude, as though the gods wanted to shake the world to pieces. People cried out; tiles fell from roofs. He managed to get to his knees, pulling Roveca and Marina down too so that at least they would not fall.

Then Marina screamed as the ground split open. Stones broke in two, sending up sprays of gritty dust, and beneath the earth came a reddish glow, like lava.

Maybe Pluto or Dis Pater had risen. Scota had been a small boy when Pompeii had been destroyed, and the stories had scared him so deeply they still had power over him. It seemed the gods would punish him for his indecision by bringing his worst nightmare to pass; this, then, would be the end of the world. All Scota could do was stare as the crevasses in the earth opened wider. The light brightened – more brilliant than the sun, so much that even his Marked vision and his visor could not shield him from in. Then, from the center of the world itself flew a gigantic bird made of fire.

Marina screamed. Scota would have done the same if he could have caught his breath. The bird must be a manifestation of one of the gods, perhaps Jupiter himself. Its wings of flame stretched out above them, dazzling and terrifying at once.

 _What is it?_ Stunned as he was, Scota could not help remembering that the Greeks had a story about a bird made of fire, one that could never die.

They called this bird the phoenix.

With great fiery wings, the bird swooped down to them – but as the glow dimmed, Scota could finally see that it was not an actual bird at the center of this flame. Instead he saw a woman clothed in flowing gold, with a green belt at her waist and hair an even deeper read than the inferno around her.

And her face – it could not be –

“Junia,” Marina whispered. “Is it you?”

“In a way,” Junia said. “Come. There’s no time to waste.”

Roveca appeared to be too shocked even to speak. Scota managed to say, “How did you survive?”

Junia’s smile was strange. “I didn’t.”

A patrol of praetorian guards appeared at that moment, but before they could even raise their weapons, Junia flung out her hand. Energy rippled from her toward the soldiers, lashing them back so hard that they flew through the air before thudding into walls. Hadn’t Junia only been Marked by Venus?

Untroubled, Junia turned back to smile at them again, and for one instant, Scota did not know whether to love her or be afraid. Her voice held an unearthly echo as she said, “I died today. Yet the gods have sent me back to this world to protect those they have Marked. To defeat Sebastianus for all time. And they have given me all the powers of the pantheon.” 


	12. X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The damned thing grew an extra chapter. 
> 
> ROMAN NAMES
> 
>  
> 
> Charles = Charelius  
> Erik = Erichthonius or Magnus  
> Emma = Emeliana  
> Logan = Lucan  
> Marie/Rogue = Marina  
> Jean = Junia  
> Henry/Beast = Bestius  
> Alexander = Alexander, yay!  
> Kitty/Shadowcat = Catula  
> Scott = Scota  
> Sebastian = Sebastianus  
> Lilandra = Lilandra  
> Kurt/Nightcrawler = Curio  
> Raven = Roveca  
> Angel = Aquilina  
> Armando = Armin  
> Azazel = Avitus  
> Janos = Januarius  
> Bobby/Iceman = Iuventius  
> Ororo/Storm = Aura  
> Sean Cassidy/Banshee = Cassius  
> Betsy Braddock/Psylocke = Braddouca  
> Remy LeBeau/Gambit = Gamnet

Erich’s hand was still warm from Charelius’ touch as they tied his arm to the cross.

Although his breaths caught in his throat, even as his chest heaved too strongly and too quickly, he did not give into the urge to weep. The Romans might see him die, but they would not see his tears.

Already he’d been spread-eagled, his parted legs tethered to the cross by rough rope – _too tight_ , Erich thought, before realizing how ridiculous that was. Now his arms were being tied in place in a V above his head. The bindings were yanked harder, so much so that he felt as though they might have cut through his flesh.

Hands tore at his clothes to rip them away. People were crucified naked or nearly so, to add to their pain and humiliation. The bitter cold stung Erich’s skin as he lay exposed and helpless.

Somewhere nearby they were doing this to Charelius.

Even that terrible grief was driven out of Erich’s head when the soldiers began to tow the cross upright. The jerky motion nauseated him, and he was struck by the thought that he’d never touch the ground again. Not soil nor sand nor grass –

With a thud, the bottom legs of the cross settled into the notches dug into the dirt. Erich felt the heaviness of his body pull down on his arms, straining the shoulder sockets; the tight binding around his waist supported some of his weight as it dug savagely under his ribs, but not much.

_This isn’t the worst pain you’ve ever felt_ , his mind supplied, desperately trying to make this something ordinary, something that could be put into a rational person’s perspective. _You can take this._

He _could_ take it … for an hour. Maybe two. But this would turn into torture hours if not days before Erich died.

As much as he didn’t want to see the terrible scene around him, Erich couldn’t help it. There, Aura hung on a cross; she and the other women had been left one scanty garment as some sort of lunatic concession to delicacy. Nearby he heard Lucan swearing with even more venom than usual. And to the left, almost out of sight beneath the soldiers tying him down, lay Charelius. Ropes encircled the hands he’d held and kissed, the hands that had touched Erich with love for the first time in his life.

_I won’t be able to see him very well_ , Erich thought, _but we’ll be able to hear one another’s voices. As long as we can speak, we can comfort each other_. It was all he had to hold onto.

Yet that meant he would have to face the moment when he could no longer answer Charelius, or Charelius could no longer call for him.

Blinking back tears, determined to keep his composure, Erich looked into the twilight blue sky. The stars had begun to appear, and – on the horizon –

A comet. Had to be. Erich had never seen one himself, but he’d heard about them. Famously, a comet had appeared in the sky on the night of Julius Caesar’s funeral; that dramatic sign of favor from the heavens had convinced even the most doubtful that the murdered Caesar had truly been divine. Something painfully close to hope twitched inside Erich, wondering whether this proof of the gods’ attention would convince the Romans to let them down. Hardly.

Yet the comet came closer and closer, burned brighter, as the Romans’ work slowed and stopped. Soldier and captive alike stared at the approaching comet until it became obvious that this was no comet at all.

“Jupiter Optimus Maximus,” swore one of the Roman soldiers. Except his words weren’t merely an empty oath, because Jupiter could take the form of an eagle, and what flew toward them now appeared to be an eagle made of flame. Erich could see its luminous wings stretching out over half the sky.

Were the Roman gods actually going to come to earth to avenge them? Or save them?

_Impossible_ , Erich thought, even though his breaths came faster, making the rope beneath his rib cage hitch painfully at every gasp. _The gods do not hear me. They have never heard me._

Yet he could not deny what he saw.

The bird of flame swooped closer, until at its center Erich could make out a vaguely human shape. One arm was flung outward – the wing blazed brilliantly over what seemed to be half the sky – and a whirlwind swept through the bonfires of _amissiona_. Within moments nothing remained of them but a few twigs and the final wisps of smoke.

As the Roman soldiers pulled their swords and looked around, seeking explanations or commands that did not come, the firebird swept downward to land in the very center of the crucifixions. The orange glow of flame dimmed until the figure at the heart of it was revealed.

“Junia!” That was Charelius’ voice, overcome with astonishment and joy. Erich was numbed to pain, to hope, to anything but astonishment.

The gods … they had been listening all this time?   

Junia’s hair hung loose and long, like that of a woman in mourning. Unseen winds stirred her locks, as they did the folds of her golden robes. She did not shout, and yet her voice carried to the farthest corners of this field. “Romans, you will cut these people down and set them free, or you will die.”

A few of the soldiers bolted and ran; Junia turned her head after them, and the road over which they ran suddenly shifted, then gave way beneath their feet. Erich could hear their screams so far down that he wondered if Junia had opened a crevasse to the underworld. Then the earth sealed over them again as though they had never been. All the other Romans began cutting people down immediately, out of either terror or piety.

And it could truly be piety motivating them, because now, at last, there could be no question whom the gods favored.

_They listened,_ Erich thought again in a daze. _The gods listened._

The cross bucked beneath him; they did not so much lower it gently as break its backward fall. Erich could not have cared less. Within moments swords and knifes sawed through the rope at his wrists and waist. He shrugged off his bindings, paying no heed to the rawness of his flesh, and experienced the almost unique miracle of leaving his cross alive.

Once again he stood on solid ground. He was naked, aching and cold, none of which mattered, because now the Romans had untied Charelius too.

Erich went to him, taking Charelius’ hand to pull him back to his feet. Swiftly he gathered Charelius in his arms and cradled him against his chest. Charelius’ entire body shivered uncontrollably, from the chill and from terror that had not had time to fade. He was as naked as Erich, but they could see to that shortly.  As far as Erich was concerned, everything else could wait. He said, “Are you all right?”

Nodding, Charelius asked, “And you? Erich, your wrists – ”

He didn’t give a damn about the rope burns on his wrists. All Erich could do was caress Charelius’ shoulders and arms, kiss his hair and hug him even tighter. Even one more chance to touch Charelius was more than he’d ever thought he’d have.

Junia descended to the ground. The halo of light around her felt as warm as any bonfire, and yet Erich could bring himself to step no closer to her. The others were as awed as he. She had become their savior, and yet no one could deny that she had also become something … otherworldly. Not human.

Charelius, however, had been her friend, and he spoke to her from within Erich’s arms. “Junia, what happened?”

“My death took me to the gods, and the gods have sent me back again with all their Marks. All of their powers, I now possess.” She smiled, until she turned her face to look at the captain of the Roman soldiers, who stood there quaking. “Clothe my friends from your own packs. Arm them. Stand by them. This is what the gods desire.”

Instantly, every single one of the soldiers bustled around, doing everything they could for their former captives. For a few minutes, they were able to comfort the frightened, warm those who were chilled, drink a bit of water or wine, and find clothes. Erich accepted a tunic and cloak and put them on without ever really noticing what he was doing. He could not stop thinking about Junia, and what this incredible reversal could mean. She was Marked by _all_ the gods? Erich could hardly imagine it. Yet this served as yet more proof that the gods he had thought so distant and uncaring instead stood by his side. They had seen him on the cross and cut him down; Junia was their sword.

Charelius, now clothed in a warm woolen robe, said to her, “Are you truly Junia, or do you simply wear her form?”

“Both and neither.” Despite Junia’s smile, Erich thought she wasn’t taunting them with that answer. To her, it wasn’t a contradiction. “The power within me can only come from the gods. I am here to save you, and Rome.”

That couldn’t be right. Erich said, “ _Save_ Rome?”

“All things change.” Junia’s serenity was both beautiful and somewhat unsettling. “Therefore Rome will change. The question is how, and to whose purpose?”

Although Erich wanted to argue, he leaned against Charelius’ shoulder, obviously to think for a moment. Surely the gods did not mean to preserve Rome, but how could he possibly doubt Junia’s words?

Charelius said, “Junia – with your powers – you could face down the entire army, and the emperor himself – ”

Her fearsome visage changed, clouded, as she shook her head. “No, Charelius. If I move against Sebastianus, we will be lost. Any power turned against him he is able to claim for his own. Think about what would happen if he had my strength, even for an instant.”

Erich didn’t want to contemplate it. Next to him, Charelius shivered.

Junia continued, “The armies of Rome will serve us or perish; that much is within my power. But Sebastianus is yours to defeat, and yours alone. Whatever I can give to help you in this, I will. Now we can begin.”

“ _Now_?” Erich stared at her; to judge by the blank faces around him, everyone was equally astonished.

Charelius spoke up, gently, as though he thought Junia might already have forgotten what it meant to be human. “Some of us were hanging on crosses less than an hour ago. We’re tired and hungry, and some of us are injured. Worst of all, we don’t have our Marks. How are we supposed to fight the armies of Rome like this?”

“I already told you, _I_ will fight the armies of Rome. You will march with me to show the people whom the gods favor. To make clear your claim to honor and justice. And to find a way to stop Sebastianus.” Junia’s hair floated around her like seaweed in the tides. Erich found himself thinking of Medusa.

Yet his mind remained clear. He said, “Junia’s right. It has to be now. Every moment we wait gives Sebastianus another chance to strike.” Never would Erich recover from the horror of realizing the Romans were burning bonfires of _amissiona_ – that they’d come up with a tactic smarter than any of his own. The Romans possessed all the wealth, all the manpower, all the weaponry; that meant the only advantages the Marked had were surprise and strength. Time to use them.

Yet the Marked stood there, stunned and unsure. As Erich looked at them – the raw marks on their wrists and waists from the crucifixion ropes, bruises from yesterday’s fight, exhaustion on every face – he felt their pain more sharply than his own. How much more must they all endure?

Erich stepped closer to Junia – to the center of the circle of warmth and light – and spoke to the entire group. “You’ve all borne more than you should ever have had to bear. You’ve gone so far, and shown such courage, and still, the gods ask more of you. Yet we have to do this. If we don’t strike now, everything we’ve been through is for nothing. But if we win, we can finally be at peace.”

Nobody spoke, but he could sense the mood changing from disbelief to determination. The bravery Erich saw in them now – each and every one – humbled him. He’d thought nothing could demand more courage than stepping into the arena, but every person here was as valiant as any gladiator could ever be.

“Those of you too injured to fight, stay behind,” he said. “If you’re able to nurse each other, good. If not, someone should remain with you. Everyone else, prepare. We march with the gods tonight.”

The newly pious Roman soldiers began equipping the Marked as well as they could while keeping enough weaponry to do their part; obviously they now considered themselves under Erich’s command, rather than the emperor’s. That was – a heady feeling, but a strange one as well.

But how were they to defeat Sebastianus?

He was distracted when he saw Charelius refuse a dagger offered to him. “What are you doing?” Erich said. “You’ll want that.”

“I’m going to try the rocks in a sack again. Worked well last time. And no point in carrying the rocks farther than I have to.” Charelius’ pallor alarmed Erich, but he imagined he looked little better. “Besides, I’m thinking.”

“About Sebastianus?” Maybe Charelius had glimpsed a solution.

That hope faded as Charelius shook his head and said, “About the Roman people. Many of them, perhaps most of them, will support us now. We need a way to tell friend from enemy. A symbol.”

Erich had not considered this. He wanted to turn the Roman people against Sebastianus, but if they hacked their way through the city, killing indiscriminately, they would lose any support. Worse – they would become as bad as the Romans had ever been.

Charelius stepped closer, looking up at Erich. Although the frenzy of activity around them had only grown louder, for a moment it seemed as though they were able to talk alone. “You don’t know how to kill Sebastianus yet.”

“I had thought …” This was only one idea among the many fantasies Erich had relished, just one of the ways he’d thought of destroying Sebastianus. Yet it was the one that endured in his mind. “… if it isn’t a blow. We don’t use much force. If I push the sword in slowly.”

“He wouldn’t receive any force to turn against us.” After a moment, Charelius nodded. “But how do we hold him still?”

“We’ll find a way.” Erich didn’t know how yet, but they would.

Junia lit the sky above them, hovering closer to Charelius, who smiled at her and said, “Can you hear it in my mind? The symbol I’m thinking of?”

“I shall tell the Romans,” she said. “And I will paint it here, in fire.”

“What symbol?” Erich said as he strapped the knife to his belt.

“I got the idea from this extinct Jewish sect, actually,” Charelius said. “Their leader was crucified, so they used the cross as the symbol. So will we.”

At that moment, Junia flung her hands toward the abandoned crosses that still stood upright; instantly they all burst into flame. Erich felt a thrill of satisfaction at seeing their symbol blazing there as a warning of the vengeance to come. The cross, the chi.

The X.

 

**

 

Since witnessing Junia’s resurrection, Marina had been stunned by both disbelief and hope. _Did that really happen? I dreamed it, didn’t I? Junia rose and the Marked are coming and all our allies are supposed to wear the X? That has to be a dream._

If it was, Roveca and Scota had dreamed it too.

She sat with them in one of the less-visited temples, in the hour just after dark when the sky was a dark yet vibrant blue. The torchlight reflected in the red glass over Scota’s eyes, and made Roveca’s scales shimmer eerily, as though she were a serpent. Marina leaned against a column, her wig askew, trying to make sense of it all. She whispered, “Are they really coming?”

“You heard Junia.” It helped to hear Scota, a patrician and an army officer, sounding as dazed as she felt. 

“Now. They’re coming now, after everything.” Roveca stood. Her indigo scales rippled as she took the female form she liked best, the woman with blonde hair. “How is that possible?”

“With our help.” Marina got to her feet as well. The wig slanted further on her head, and in irritation she snatched it off and tossed it to the floor. To hell with the wig: Tonight everyone should know who she was, and what she could do. “We can get in the palace, right? If you look like a guard? And Scota probably can walk in whenever he wants.”

Scota seemed to come back to himself with a start. “Of course. Perhaps we pretend to have captured Marina. We would be taken directly to the emperor.”

Each of them understood that they would kill Sebastianus if they could, force him to go on the run if they could not. Marina wasn’t sure how much help she could be. Although her skin had been strangely numb and tingly for the past several hours, she didn’t know whether her Mark had returned, and wasn’t willing to touch anyone to find out. If she had to face Sebastianus’ wrath without any powers on her side …

_Then I’ll know how Lucan felt all these years, being drugged and forced to suffer in the arena. How Erich and Charelius and all the others felt. If they can do it, so can I._

As he stood, Scota said, “We aren’t that far from my brother’s house. I think we should go there.”

“Are we going to rescue Emeliana?” Marina couldn’t believe how worried she was about Emeliana; up until the past few days, she hadn’t even been sure she liked the woman.

Scota paused at Emeliana’s name – but he shook his head. “If she is willing to come with us, good. But it’s more important to ask my brother to join us.”

“Alexander?” Roveca’s voice was harsh. “He’s loyal to Sebastianus.”

“Not any longer.”

How could he be so sure? Marina didn’t like relying on brotherly affection, especially given how Alexander had spent most of the last two years as attached to Sebastianus as his own right hand. Yet if there were any chance that another Marked by Mars would join them, they had to take it.

Roveca’s form shifted again, into the black-bearded male soldier she often wore, as the three of them hurried out of the temple. Marina gathered up the hem of her stola as they began down the steps – and then she gasped.

Scota and Roveca came to a halt beside her. None of them could do anything but stare.

The scene was pure chaos: screams and shouts and the hurried boarding-up of windows that presaged fighting in the streets. That much Marina had expected. What shocked her was that on virtually every door, or on their clothes, people were painting an X.

_The city isn’t with Sebastianus. They’re with us._

 

**

 

Charelius marched at the front of their ragtag army, only a pace behind Erich. He had virtually no combat experience, and was without his Mark, but he didn’t care.

_We’ll fight tonight, but the battle won’t be won with weapons. The people must see that the gods hold us in favor, and they must see that we are brave._ Bravery meant marching in front.

Besides, he wanted to remain close to Erich, whatever came. Never would Charelius forget the agony of having Erich torn away from him at the field of crucifixion. Their miraculous rescue could never erase that scar. From now on, he would live or die by Erich’s side.

And even now – even as Junia lit up the sky above them brighter than a thousand torches, absolute proof of divine favor, he knew they could die tonight.

The gods had heard them. Had chosen them. In the coming battle, the Marked would be victorious. Charelius had no more doubt about that. But he had learned all the old stories when he’d been an orator in Lilandra’s troupe, so he knew his myths well. Those who the gods loved most were often those who had to make the greatest sacrifices.

If one of them were to perish at the moment of victory – it would be exactly the sort of cruel irony the gods enjoyed.

 

**

 

Whispers spread like fire through alleys of Rome. They said that Trajan’s armies had finally broken through Sebastianus’ line and would arrive within days. That uprisings had now broken out in every corner of the empire – and even some Marked people from lands beyond the empire, like India, had intervened on their comrades’ behalf. That the priests and augurs all foretold the greater glory of the Marked.

And they had all heard the call from the Marked themselves. They all knew the sign, and knew that the Marked would come tonight.

The shouts went up as the army reached the outskirts of the city. Some people screamed, but others cheered, and in the havoc only the Xs could prove who was who.

The first sight of the Marked was a story people told, over and over, in the years to come. A muscular man with the wild hair and claws of a wild animal. Another beastlike man, whose fur was the blue of the night sky. A tall woman with dark skin and white hair, who held herself like a queen. In front of the group, two men – as different as a gladiator and a scholar – but walking so close together that they seemed to march as one. Above them all, a woman flying through the air, surrounded by such a brilliantly fiery light that she turned the night into day. As different as they all were, there could be no question that they belonged together.

Despite their dirty skin and ragged clothing, they looked glorious in those first few moments before the praetorians came, and the battle began.

 

**

 

Lucan had been spoiling for a good fight. That made this his best day in a long time.

His claws slashed open one praetorian’s breastplate, made splinters out of another’s shield. Beside him he saw Aquilina swinging a thick staff into one guy’s gut, and heard the resulting yelps of pain. Ahead, at the very front of it all, Erich fighting like the champion gladiator he was. That guy could swing a sword.

But he didn’t know how to enjoy it. Lucan did.

He missed his Mark of Diana right now. It lit up when he was in combat, heating his blood to a high rage that only made him stronger. Lucan could leap farther than a panther, run faster than a leopard, and punch with the brute strength of a bear. His goddess gave him the power of every beast at once, and even let him delight in the scent of blood. Now he was without any of that – but not without his claws. Diana had given him one Mark no Roman could ever take away.

_She did me right,_ Lucan thought, before tearing the next Roman open. _I oughta sacrifice more often._

Just as he struck, though, the skies lit up overhead. People screamed and shouted as Junia blazed even brighter and pushed outward with her arms. It was like she’d walloped the entire praetorian force. They all went flying backward – some of them through the air – before landing flat, sometimes unconscious. The stones of the street were littered with discarded pieces of armor, slick puddles of blood, tattered pieces of cloth. Only thing that mattered, Lucan figured, was that it looked like all of the Marked were still standing. They’d taken some blows, but no one was dead. In fact, their forces had swelled; many ordinary citizens were with them now, and even a few of the praetorians had switched sides.

_The Praetorians were gonna be the ones most loyal to the emperor. They’re the ones he makes rich. If we got a few of_ those _to come with us, Sebastianus hasn’t got anybody on his side_.

Nothing between them and the palace now. Lucan grinned.

 

**

 

Only Emeliana’s pride kept her from fainting.

She’d been imprisoned in one of the storage rooms in the back of their home, a crude and basic space mostly used for storing empty amphorae. After that first day, Alexander had made it clear that he would move against Sebastianus – but until then, they had to keep up the pretense of her captivity. One of the emperor’s men could have come to the house at any moment, even searched it. So Emeliana had slept on a few blankets on the tile floor or the storage room, which was neither warm nor comfortable, and while the slaves had begun sneaking her food even before Alexander told them to feed her, nothing halfway palatable could be eaten out there. Bread and hard cheese – ugh. And she hadn’t bathed in days. Emeliana had never gone more than two days without bathing in her life.

Yet as she had laid there on the dirt, cramped and hungry, Emeliana had reminded herself, _This is how Charelius lived. This is how all your slaves live. You deserve to know what it’s like._

So she had been resigned to waiting until the moment they burst in to tell her the rebellion had begun.

“Wait,” she pleaded as she ran behind Alexander and Roveca. Marina was ahead of them all. “I feel dizzy.”

“Come on,” Scota said. His arm went around her – purely to help her along, she knew – and yet even amid the panic, Emeliana couldn’t help being warmed by his touch.

“What am I to do at the palace? My Mark is still silent.” Emeliana pushed her hair away from her face as they hurried toward the Domus Augustus.

Roveca’s voice was sharp. “Are you scared?”

“I am, and you should be too, if you have any sense!”

Before Emeliana could lose her temper completely, Scota murmured in her ear. “You should help the Marked get into the palace. You’ve dined there often enough; you know it as well as anyone. We’ll go inside while you wait for the army of the Marked.”

Emeliana wanted to tell Scota to be careful, but what was the use? They were far past the bounds of caution. All of them were risking their lives, and they knew it.

Maybe she should have been more worried about her husband Alexander. She wasn’t.

 

**

 

Muscles aching, breaths coming fast in his chest, Erich stood at the bottom step of the Domus Augustus. The first time he’d been here, he’d been displayed before Sebastianus like a prize horse for sale. He wanted his last trip to the palace to be much more satisfying.

Their army gathered around them, and the roaring crowds just beyond. Even without Junia brilliant as a second moon in the sky above them, the night would have been bright with torches carried by those who wanted to see them win. The army of the Marked – exhausted yet exhilarated – waited for his orders.

Charelius lay down his bag of stones. At Erich’s look, he shrugged. “It won’t do me any good when we get inside. We’ll need other weapons then.”

“Such as?”

They shared a glance, darkly humorous. Neither of them had any idea of how to hold Sebastianus immobile long enough to be killed.

_It’s enough if we send him on the run tonight_ , Erich thought. _Better that than taking an unnecessary risk and getting Charelius killed._

Junia came lower, hovering just overhead so that her golden robes seemed to spread like a canopy above them. “I can go no further.” Her resonant voice seemed to vibrate through the very ground beneath their feet. “Sebastianus is yours, now.”

“Thank you,” Charelius said, and he lifted his hands above his head until his fingers touched Junia’s cheeks. She smiled down at him, for one moment human again. “For everything.”

Erich squared his shoulders. His arms were sore from the fighting they’d already seen; his ribs still ached from the crucifixion rope. “Now,” he said.

Most of the army of the Marked did not go in. Erich and Charelius had decided as much, knowing that if they failed, others needed to take on the fight. They’d made too much progress tonight – won too much loyalty – to risk all their lives on this one stab at Sebastianus. Only Erich, Charelius and Lucan ran into the Domus Augustus.

Charelius, who had lived here a brief time, began orienting them. “All right. If he’s in the smaller sitting room, we’d go this way – ”

“He isn’t.” A figure stepped out of the shadows. With a jolt, Erich recognized Charelius’ former owner. The giddy, spoiled girl Emeliana had been was gone. In her place stood a woman as filthy as any slave, but holding herself with pride. “He’s in the reception chamber. I’ll lead you there.”

Charelius took her hand, and the way they smiled at each other then – well, Erich was glad he could be certain of Charelius’ love. To interrupt the moment, Erich said, “Let’s go.”

They made their way through the darkened corridors. Only a few oil lamps were lit; most of the slaves had sagely chosen to remain out of harm’s way for the night. Erich had spent most of the march back to Rome cursing the fact that he had only soft sandals, and Charelius was barefoot – but at least now they could move quietly through the long, tiled hallways. The murals on the walls seemed to gaze after them – countless painted maidens holding garlands as though decorating their path.

“What’s the story in there?” Lucan growled. His extended claws dripped blood from the cuts in his hand that could not yet heal.

“I believe that Januarius and Avitus are still with him,” Emeliana said. “Alexander has come to our side. He, Roveca and Scota took Marina to the emperor – ”

“What the hell?” Lucan wheeled on her so abruptly that Erich instinctively threw out a hand to stop him from striking. “They turned her over to him?”

“Just to get close to him! They want a chance to strike too!” Emeliana’s eyes blazed. “Or would you rather go against Sebastinanus alone?”

“Before I’d throw Marina in there with that bastard, hell, yeah, I’d take him on by myself.” When he was angered, Lucan’s hair stood on end like that of a beast.

Charelius put a hand on Lucan’s arm. “Marina took her own chances, just like we’re taking ours. Let’s stop arguing and go help her, all right?” Although Lucan still looked like a badger about to strike, he nodded and resumed walking.

When they turned another corner, Erich could see brighter lamps burning in a room down the far end of a corridor – and could hear a voice ranting, echoing too dissonantly to be understood. The voice could be recognized, however; Erich would never have forgotten what Sebastianus sounded like.

His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. Hate filled his veins like fresh blood for his weary body. Erich had only one prayer for whatever gods were listening. _Let me kill this man._

 

**

 

Long ago Scota had realized that Sebastianus was both sadistic and corrupt. Until tonight he had not thought him mad.

He had also thought that after going into battle against the Germans, nothing else could ever frighten him again.

But Scota had been wrong on both counts.

He stood, tense and pale, with Marina by his side. Alexander stood at her other shoulder; Roveca “guarded” the door. Though Scota knew his brother was trying to play the part, he could tell how devastated Alexander was to see his idol revealed, finally, as the loathsome creature he truly was.

Sebastianus raged. “What do you mean, they’ve reached the sacred walls of the city? We had two legions ready for them!”

“Half of those have been defeated,” Januarius said, practically cringing. In the court of Sebastianus, it was dangerous to be the bringer of bad news. “The other half have defected and joined the Marked.”

“Joined the Marked? _We_ are the Marked! We are no less chosen by the gods than these rebels are!” Sebastianus had not allowed his barber to shave him in several days. His fine robes had been stained by wine. By now he looked more madman than emperor. Was this what he had always been? How could Alexander have wanted a champion so badly he had built one out of … this?  “And you, there, Marked of Pluto. Serving your emperor wasn’t good enough for you?”

Marina, though the youngest of them all, was perhaps the calmest. “You only used me to kill people.”

“And I’ll use you again,” Sebastianus said. “But you won’t get your silk robes and floral wreaths anymore. I’ll keep you in a cell, stark naked, and whenever I realize a man is getting too ambitious, I’ll tell him I have a treat for him. A virgin who needs deflowering before she can be executed. They’ll die while they’re raping you. Two punishments in one – and how exquisite, for them to die in the act of love. I can’t wait to watch.”

Although Marina’s face paled, she didn’t flinch. Scota wished he could comfort her, but everything depended on revealing no sign of his true allegiance.

Alexander, however … the disgust on his face was all too clear. Would his brother break and lash out?

As grotesque as his envisioned punishment for Marina was, for Sebastianus it was hardly more than an afterthought. Already he was ranting about something else. “What of the troops we called from Dacia? Won’t they arrive today?”

“A contingent of the Marked has seized the port,” Scota said. He hoped the satisfaction he felt about this wasn’t obvious in his voice. “They claim it is protected for them by the Phoenix.”  

“The Phoenix,” Sebastianus sneered. “We buried that slut of a Vestal alive. Some zealots dug her body up again, and want us to believe stories about a wall of fire.”

Which was when the sky outside went bright, and Scota could hardly see, and the fire circled the Domus Augustus, enclosing it completely. All of them cried out, in astonishment and perhaps pain, though inside Scota took heart. _The Phoenix is here, so the others must be too._

The red glass of his visor allowed him to see again before the others. Four figures, walking in together – the shadows of three men and a woman walking toward them out of what seemed to be a sea of flame. As though through fog, their features came clear. Emeliana, head high despite her dishabille. Lucan, with his claws extended from shredded flesh. Charelius, holding himself like no man’s slave. And Erich – Magnus, the hammer of Vulcan – walking toward Sebastianus the way he had walked into the ring. No swagger, no pride, just the certainty that he would live and his opponent would die.

“You were a fool to come back here,” Sebastianus said. “All of you, but Charelius most of all. You realize what you have coming now, don’t you?”

“I realize what you have coming.” Charelius remained utterly calm. “Though yours is only what you deserve.”

 

**

 

Nobody had asked Lucan for his battle strategy, but he figured he’d contribute anyway.

If Erich needed to get a strike at Sebastianus when Sebastianus couldn’t resist, then maybe the emperor needed a little distraction.

Lucan leapt at Sebastianus, pouncing on him solidly enough to take the guy down.  With his claws he dug savagely into Sebastianus’ thigh, and the resulting howl was sweet. _That’s for my panthers_ , he thought.

Before Lucan could strike again, Sebastianus shoved back at him – and the power of it was beyond anything Lucan had ever felt. He flew through the air, the world seeming to spin in a dozen directions at once, until – _CRACK!_ – pain splintered through his head, his back, every part of him that had just made contact with the marble-tiled wall.

He landed on the floor, dizzy and struggling to remain conscious. Lucan’s head lolled to one side; at a skewed angle he could see the others. But he sought only Marina.

_Get out of here while you can_ , he thought, but she didn’t move.

 

**

 

Charelius had heard how powerful Sebastianus could be in combat, but seeing him toss aside someone as strong as Lucan made him blanch. Roveca’s eyes met his, and he could see his own question mirrored in her: _How are we supposed to kill this man?_

Erich began circling around Sebastianus, the same way he’d gauged other gladiators in the arena. Despite the bloodstains spreading on Sebastianus’ robe, he remained upright, even smiling. Lucan’s attack had been brave, but futile. Sebastianus laughed. “Do you think I’m another slave for you to knock down?”

“You’re lower than any of the gladiators were.” Erich spoke and moved with utter calm. “What they did, they were forced to do. You are a murderer by choice.”

The emperor’s eyes narrowed, and Charelius felt a stab of fear. If he threw Erich the way he’d thrown Lucan – even dosed the _amissiona_ , Lucan was impossible to kill, but a blow like that could be fatal for Erich.

Although Charelius could acquit himself well enough in a fight, he knew he was nowhere near as skilled as either of the two men before him. How could he help?

Then he realized – _we’re all waiting for one strategy. One moment. We can’t wait. We must make Sebastianus fight all of us at once._

“Everyone!” he shouted. “Now!”

Instantly Roveca shimmered into her blue self, cartwheeling forward to kick Sebastianus soundly in the jaw. Erich swung his sword; it clanged off the heavy metal decoration at Sebastianus’ shoulder, but knocked him the rest of the way to the floor. Avitus whirled around – making Charelius think for one instant that the emperor’s own general would turn on him – but instead he vanished in a swirl of red smoke, seeing to his own safety instead of his emperor’s. A brilliant beam of red light scorched the air – Charelius skipped back, startled, before he realized that was Scota’s Mark of Mars, joined by his brother’s. Without any Mark to contribute, Charelius simply picked up the heaviest urn he could manage and threw it at Sebastianus’ head.

Every blow landed. With a crash, the urn shattered into pieces that clattered on the floor. The emperor fell to his hands and knees, seemingly blind. Erich stepped forward, raising his sword high overhead – aiming for a killing blow, one that would go through the base of the skull. As little as Charelius wanted to witness any man’s death, he prayed that Erich could do this, press through slowly, without much force, so that Sebastianus would die by degrees. This, just this, and they could be free.

In the next instant, Sebastianus lifted his head, and he was smiling.

 

**

 

Sebastianus moved so quickly that Erich did not even see him. He only felt it – the impossible impact against his arm that spun him down onto the tile so hard the breath fled his lungs. Once he’d thought no force could be as overwhelming as the first blow Sebastianus had ever struck him, but he’d been wrong; the emperor was stronger now than he’d ever been. He’d absorbed all their blows, taken their strength and made it his.

As Erich struggled to inhale, he saw Sebastianus seize Scota and Alexander both, his hands at their throats as he lifted them both from the ground. “I thought you at least would be loyal,” he said to the two of them. “Examples will be made. And don’t think I don’t see you cowering over there, Januarius. You get to keep your skin, but rest assured, all today’s sins will be punished.”

With that, he bodily threw them aside; they tumbled into Emeliana, so that the three of them fell together. A lock of matted blond hair fell across Emeliana’s face as she reached for Scota –

But Erich could not look at them any longer, because Sebastianus was walking toward Charelius with a smile on his face as he said, “It’s time.”

 

**

 

_I will die first,_ Charelius promised himself. If that meant getting to Erich’s sword and impaling himself on it, then that was what he could do. Nobody would ever rape him again.

He said to Sebastianus, “You know you can’t hold power after this.” His voice sounded almost surreally calm, as if it had nothing to do with the pounding of his pulse, or the terror he felt seeing Erich stunned and bleeding on the floor. And Roveca – his sister, just returned to him – she lay so still he thought she might already be dead. “You’ve lost the people. You’ve lost the army. Even if you kill every one of us, you won’t be able to kill Junia – not again. And after this you’ll have to reckon with all the Marked throughout the world. I don’t know what man could do it, but I know it isn’t you.”

“All this prattle only shows that you still don’t know what it means to be Marked.” Sebastianus drew one fingertip down the line of Charelius’ jaw, a touch that revolted him. “We are akin to the gods, you and I. But you think that means we owe one another something.”

“If the gods did not mean us to stand together – ”

“Do the gods themselves stand together?” The emperor’s laughter rang throughout the entire chamber, echoing off pillars. Junia’s wall of flame around the Domus Augustus cast strange shadows, twisting the features of Sebastianus’ face. “No! They lie to one another. Deceive one another. Fight and fuck and betray one another. Among the gods, there is no morality. There is only power for those who will claim it.”

Over Sebastianus’ shoulder, Charelius could see Erich – dazed and shaking – nonetheless trying to get to his feet to defend him. _Please no_ , Charelius thought. _If there is a sacrifice to be made, let it be me. Save yourself._

Not much chance of that, though. Erich was too brave and too obstinate. So Charelius took a step closer to Erich, and to his sword.

“You think you can get away?” Sebastianus seized Charelius’ arm so tightly that he gasped in pain. “That’s the sound I wanted to hear. Tell me, Charelius, once I’m done with you – once every man loyal to me is done with you – how would you like to die? On the cross again, now that you’ve had a taste for it?”

_Anything but that,_ Charelius thought.

“Strangled, I think.” Sebastianus’ other hand stroked Charelius’ throat. “By my own hands. What could be better?”

“Only one thing,” said Marina.

Charelius startled; so did Sebastianus. She’d crouched on the floor so quietly that he’d almost forgotten she was there. The emperor snapped, “What did you say?”

Marina stepped closer, her one silver lock of hair painted gold by Junia’s flame. “There’s only one death better than that,” she whispered. “How exquisite, to die in the act of love.”

And she took Sebastianus’ face in her hands and kissed him.

 

**

 

After all the executions she’d been forced to perform in the Colosseum, Marina had come to believe that nothing she found in anyone’s _genius_ could still shock her. She’d seen nobility and venality, sex acts of the greatest passion and brutality, the horrors of the battlefield and the loneliness of captivity – everything, she’d thought.

Now that Sebastianus’ dark soul spilled into hers, she knew she had been wrong.

The things he’d done – the things he’d wanted to do, to her and to Lucan and to all of them – it nauseated her.

_Serve him right if I vomit in his mouth,_ Marina thought, holding him in the kiss.

Her Mark of Pluto had indeed returned – as she’d discovered when Alexander brushed past her as he fell. Though he’d been in too much pain from the emperor’s blows to really notice, she’d seen the telltale black veins along his leg. In that instant she had realized that her Mark was the only one Sebastianus had no defense against. Time he learned it too.

Sebastianus pushed at her shoulders, trying to free himself, but just the first touch of her Mark had all but paralyzed him; his muscles were locked in a rictus of pain. Marina could feel that pain too, flowing through her along with the entire sick tide of his mind. Every vile thought he’d ever had was being injected into her like venom through a snake’s fangs.

So it was the strength of his own hate that kept her hanging on as he slumped against her. Marina embraced Sebasstianus, completing the mockery of “love.” She kissed him as passionately as she’d ever kissed Lucan, because hate could be as strong a passion as any other, and reveled in the way he began to go limp.

His last breath was in her mouth. The last thought he ever had was, _How could they defeat me?_ Proud to the end.

Then Marina opened her arms and let the emperor’s dead body fall.

As Sebastianus lay there, open-eyed, his skin marbled with gray and black, no one spoke. No one moved, for what felt like a long time, before Charelius took a step closer to her. “Is he dead?”

“Very dead.” The dark glee she felt was not part of her own spirit; it was Sebastianus within her, living through her. All the dead did this, but the sheer force of his malevolence threatened to overwhelm her.

“Are you all right?” Charelius hardly waited for her to nod before he rushed to Erich’s side. From their heap on the floor, Emeliana, Scota and Alexander began disentangling themselves, all of them staring at what remained of Sebastianus. Emeliana reached over to Roveca – who stirred, however slightly.

Januarius, who still stood where he’d been when Sebastianus last threatened him, took a deep sigh of relief. He might not have had the nerve to challenge the emperor himself, but he was just one of the millions who would celebrate his death.

By now Erich had managed to rise to his hands and knees, Charelius ‘s arm around his shoulders. Erich’s grin was as fierce as ever as he spoke to Marina. “I wanted to kill him myself, you know. But you beat me to it.”

It was a joke. His way of congratulating her. And yet his words irritated Marina beyond measure. How dare he presume to criticize her, to challenge her after she’d just defeated the emperor? She ought to kiss him too. And Januarius, for being such a pathetic sheep, and Alexander as well—

\--but that was Sebastianus talking inside her, his mind and not hers, and she must not listen—

From the hallway came the pounding of feet and the jangling of armor. Whatever praetorians remained loyal to Sebastianus were coming – too late to save him, but not too late to avenge him.

Charelius grabbed Erich’s sword; Erich tried to stop him, but for the moment Charelius was the quicker. Scota turned to face them, his hand at the red glass of his helmet, ready to strike. How could even the two of them defeat so many soldiers? It wasn’t as though Marina could kiss them all.

Then she remembered the aftermath of that last terrible day in the arena, when she’d touched Lucan. For a while afterward, she hadn’t only held his _genius._ She’d shared his Mark.

When the soldiers ran in, Marina flung her arms wide – and the force jolted through her, slamming into all of them simultaneously so that they went sprawling. Oh, the Mark of Hercules felt amazing. She could have done that a thousand times. For now she contented herself with just one more, shoving the soldiers so far back that they were pressed against the wall.

Charelius jerked back; Scota stared. Marina laughed. “Surrender now,” she said. “Declare your loyalty to us. Or you’ll be sorry.”

Oh, she’d make them sorry, she’d show them all …

Then, in the corner of her eye, she saw Lucan move.

All the poison within her changed back to blood. Marina gasped, and it felt like breathing for the first time after being held underwater for so long you’d nearly drowned. She ran to Lucan’s side to kneel by him. If only she could have held him, too. ”How do you feel?”

“Like shit, as usual.” But Lucan grinned. “Did you just kill the emperor?”

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t known this all along, but somehow hearing him say it made everything more real. After taking a deep breath, Marina nodded.

Lucan’s chuckle was a low rumble in his chest. “My hero.”  

She couldn’t help smiling. “You better believe it.”

By now the soldiers were getting to their feet, but they had also seen Sebastianus’ body. If they’d had enough loyalty to the man to want to avenge him, they had greater fear of whoever or whatever had been able to kill him. Their swords stayed sheathed. Emeliana embraced Scota; after watching for an embarrassed moment, Alexander turned to help Roveca to her feet.

Leaning closer to Marina, Lucan whispered, “We gotta find some more _amissiona_ , so I can thank you properly.”

“I bet we can find some.” If the situation had been any less fraught, Marina thought she might have laughed. Somewhere, behind all the fear and anger of the past half-hour, joy was waiting to burst free.

Charelius slung one of Erich’s arms around his shoulder to tow him to his feet. Although Erich obviously remained stunned, his disbelief as he looked down at Sebastianus’ corpse seemed to come not from injury but a sense of wonder. “Can it really be over?” he said.

“Yes, it can.” Charelius kissed Erich’s hand. “It’s over. We’re free.” 


	13. The Fates We Make

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to believe in my heart that you guys know the Roman names by now.

For the rest of her life, Marina remembered that night as one of the most glorious she’d ever known.

The chaos in the streets of Rome was transformed from fear to exhilaration. Every priest gave blessings; every tavern keeper poured wine for the Marked. Those who saw how paltry and ragged their clothing was donated other items, until by dawn all the Marked were warmly dressed, most of them in the best garments they’d ever owned. Rooms were found in private homes, inns and insulae, meaning they would all have a safe place to sleep – if the celebrations ever ended. It felt as though they might be singing and cheering forever.

Mostly Marina remembered the way Junia had glowed in the sky above, and how Charelius and Erich kept kissing each other over and over again, as though they could hardly bear for their lips to part. She would have liked to have done the same with Lucan, but with her Mark returned to her …

“Don’t you worry,” Lucan murmured as they settled into their room in an insula – with two cots, so that she would not hurt him if she rolled over in her sleep. “There’s more _amissiona_ where that came from.”

“Someday it’s going to run out, though.” Marina hadn’t forgotten what she’d learned during those meetings on the steps of the House of the Vestals. “They weren’t even sure they had enough to last the next two decades.”

“That was when they were trying to dose every Marked slave in the entire Empire.” Lucan’s grin could look so deliciously fierce. “Now that you’re just about the only one who’ll still be taking the stuff? I imagine it’s going to last a good long time. Say, the rest of our lives.”

She hadn’t known you could smile so much your face ached. “I just wish we had some tonight.”

“Me too,” Lucan said. But as they each sat down on their cots, Marina groaned with the same exhaustion she could see in Lucan’s face. Then they were both laughing, weary and silly.

At last Marina managed to say, “I don’t think we could have done much tonight anyway.”

“So tonight we sleep. Tomorrow we find ourselves some _amissiona_.” He smiled lazily. “Assuming I get a chance to be alone with you, seeing how everyone’s going to be lining up to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

Lucan raised an eyebrow. “For killing that bastard Sebastianus and freeing every Marked person in the Roman Empire?”

She hadn’t thought of it as her doing alone. Besides – “I did that for me as much as for anyone else.”

“Does that mean you don’t want me to thank you tomorrow?” The low note in Lucan’s voice made her shiver in the best possible way.

“Rest up,” she answered, as flirtatiously as she could while kicking off her sandals. “You’re going to have a lot to handle tomorrow – as soon as we get our _amissiona_.”

They fell asleep on opposite sides of the room, and yet together. It was bliss enough to see Lucan lying near her, and to close her eyes as dawn broke with no thought of having to wake before she wanted. The present already felt as sweet as any dream.

Reality came upon awakening.

 

**

 

“ _Amissiona_ withdrawal,” Emeliana explained. She had spent the morning at the baths. With her skin clean, her hair styled and a fresh, snow-white stola, she felt like herself again. “Everyone in the Army of the Marked was dosed with the stuff, which means now they have to free themselves of it.”

“You’re well enough,” Alexander said. They sat in their main room, in chairs that were far apart. Scota, in a chair equal distance between them, remained quieter than usual. She sensed all three of them were vividly aware of the spaces between them, this silent triangulation. “And you were forced to take _amissiona_.”

“One dose, ever, in my whole life. Even then, I had a headache for a couple of days.” She said it lightly, as though it were any other discomfort. In fact the headache had left her nauseated and almost incapable for the better part of a day. How much worse must it be for those who had been forced to drink the stuff for years? When she had gone to see Charelius earlier, he’d already been uncomfortable; Erich, who had no use for her at the best of times, had glowered at her as though she were personally pounding his skull with a mallet. It would have been funny, except –

\- except that the Army of the Marked had been rendered all but powerless.

“Some of them will recuperate quickly, but others will need more time. According to Charelius, they may not be all be themselves again until the ides of April.”

Finally Scota spoke. “That’s far too long. Trajan’s army will arrive in town within days. The Marked must meet him with our own strength, on our own terms.”

Hearing him talk as though he were at one with the army of the Marked warmed Emeliana from within. But whatever pleasure she felt was dampened by the knowledge that he too, saw the terrible danger.

Alexander shook his head. He seemed an altogether different man to Emeliana now – wiser, sadder, more man than boy. Yet when she looked at him she still could hardly understand him, even with the Mark. He said to Scota, “Do you believe we could withhold the throne from him? I doubt it. The army is deeply loyal to Trajan, and he hasn’t offended against the Marked, so the troops won’t turn against him on that score.”

“I had a thought,” Emeliana said. “We have Junia, and she’s as powerful as the rest of the army put together.”

Scota shook his head. “I don’t know what Junia is now, but she’s not ours to command. She’d defend us against any attacks, but short of that – I get the sense she’s beyond politics.”

Beyond everything mortal, Emeliana thought. Although she was more optimistic than Scota about Junia’s protection, she had to acknowledge that Junia could be commanded by no one.

Of course, that meant Junia couldn’t be commanded by Trajan, either.

Alexander breathed out, a sound of amazement. “I hadn’t even thought of Junia, and I should have. It’s just difficult to remember that a woman has so much power.” Emeliana raised an eyebrow, and he checked himself. “The gods choose whom they choose. I know that. It’s just so hard to understand.”

“Did you think it should have been you?” She regretted the words as soon as she’d spoken them; there was no point in being antagonistic.

Alexander paid her comment little mind. He was too weighed down by his own cares. “I don’t think I’ve understood anything, until now. Perhaps never in my life.”

“You know that’s not true.” Scota went to his brother and laid his hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “Many of us were wrong about Sebastianus. And the question of the Marked is new to our generation. We’re all finding our way together.” Alexander managed a rueful smile, and laid his hand atop his brother’s.

They loved each other so. Their bond was tighter than any Emeliana had ever shared with Alexander. What she might have had with Scota … but no. She couldn’t afford to think like that. Coming between them would be unthinkably cruel, even if she could have done it, and Emeliana didn’t think she could.

This next would hurt, but Emeliana knew it had to be said. She had to learn what would become of her future.

“Alexander – we said, before, that once Sebastianus had been dealt with, we would discuss our future.” Her words came out evenly and calmly. “I do not plan to divorce you. If I did so, I would again be under the authority of my father.” Perhaps she should have said that she wanted to give things another try, that they might yet learn to live happily together, but today she would not lie. “However, I realize you may plan to divorce me. I would like to know your decision, if you have made one.”

Scota’s hand fell from Alexander’s shoulder. Emeliana’s Mark of Minerva – flickering back to life – told her that his heart had been pierced through at the moment she said she would not divorce Alexander. Feeling his pain as sharply as her own made it difficult for her to maintain her resolve, but she held on.

After a long moment, Alexander said, “I must consider.”

Emeliana bowed her head in silent assent. For now, she remained married, and the man she wanted remained as far from her as the stars.

 

**

Charelius eased Erich up to lean against his chest. “Try to drink some water.”

“I don’t want anything.” Erich’s voice rasped on each word. He had days of stubble on his cheeks, and his eyes were bloodshot and unfocused.

“You need to drink,” Charelius insisted. “Come on. For me.”

Erich took a few swallows – enough for now, Charelius decided. Although he wished to give Erich something to eat, too, he suspected Erich couldn’t keep anything down yet.

The great battle had taken place eight nights ago. This meant eight days since anyone in the army of the Marked had taken _amissiona_ , and most of them were now in the darkest agonies of withdrawal.

Not all of them, however. Charelius never became as sick as he had before – not even close – and the worst of it was over for him within a few days. It was much the same for the others who had not regularly been taking _amissiona_ before the Romans’ fires. The poison was not as deeply entrenched in them, and so they recovered more easily. Roveca, Bestius, Cassius – all of them quickly became themselves again. That meant they could devote themselves to nursing the others through it, the ones who suffered so much more.

Particularly those who had been drugged day after day for years, like Erich.

Charelius covered Erich with a blanket and stroked his arm. Already Erich was asleep again. At least this was true sleep, not the terrible stupor or unconsciousness that he’d seen so much of in the past few days. And Erich had a real bed, too; all the rooms in the local inn had been given to the Marked. That first night they’d been too exhausted to make love, and by the next day Erich had already been too uncomfortable – though even then he had been comforted by the rare luxury of lying side by side throughout the night.

By now it had been days since Erich had been coherent for more than a few minutes at a time.

_The only way out of this is through._ Charelius reminded himself of how weak he’d been – but even though it had seemed an eternity to him at the time, he’d really been back to himself within two weeks. _You got through this, and you’ve never been as strong as Erich. He’ll make it._

He began checking on some of the others in their same in. Most of them slept too, though Iuventius tossed fitfully, and just as Charelius reached Curio, his blue tail arced in a way that Charelius had learned meant vomiting in the near future.

Quickly he supported Curio’s torso and held a rag to his mouth; by now there was little enough in his belly. Once the heaves had stopped, Charelius wiped him clean as he could.

“Thank you,” Curio whispered.

“You did the same for me once.”

Though, probably, most of the caregiving had been by Lilandra. He’d always appreciated what his former owner had done for him – but until he’d nursed people through this himself, Charelius had had no idea how much work it was. Lilandra was even nobler than he’d imagined.

Her kindness had led her straight into exile. But this, at least, had already been set right. Alexander had sent word for a vessel to fetch Lilandra back to Rome and restore her property to her. She could be back at her estate in Gades within a month. Charelius smiled as he thought of her; hopefully they would have a chance to meet again, share some wine and talk over good times. He wanted to thank her – and he already knew that, whatever emotions had stirred between them, Lilandra would genuinely be happy that he’d been reunited with his lost love.

Again he looked down at Erich lying in bed – their bed. _We live here together,_ he thought with wonder. This room would not be theirs forever, probably not for more than another few weeks, but it was still their first shared home. Charelius never wanted to forget a single detail, not even the draughty space beneath the door.

Erich stirred fitfully. In the past week he had lost some weight, and for a such a large man he looked strangely vulnerable. Although Charelius had slept on a mat on the floor the last few nights so Erich could rest more easily, he lay down on the bed beside Erich for a moment, just to put his arm around Erich’s chest.

A soft rapping at the door made Charelius sit up. He whispered, “Who is it?”

“Your sister,” Roveca said just as quietly, which made him smile.

“And woman risking her reputation,” Emeliana added. “Not that I have much left.”

They went outside together to sit in the inn’s small courtyard. Not much sunlight filtered here, so it was cooler than it would have been on the street, but so much warmer than it had been only a few weeks ago. Spring had finally come. Charelius had only owned this fine new cloak for a handful of days – a gift given him on that first ecstatic night of celebration – and now he didn’t need it any longer. _All those cold nights,_ he thought ruefully.

Emeliana and Roveca had come to explain the tactical situation. It was Emeliana who began. “Trajan finally cleared the last of the rough terrain. Scota and Alexander are riding out together, today, to rendezvous with his army.”

Uncertainty washed over Charelius, submerging his new sense of freedom. There was more than one way to be enslaved. “It is to be Trajan, then?”

Roveca nodded. “No one else has the authority to seize the throne and keep it.”

The alternative to an Emperor Trajan would be civil war. Charelius took a deep breath. “Then we have to hope for the best.”  

“We can do more than hope.” Emeliana insisted. There was a wildness to her, now – a desperation. He realized this had nothing to do with her fears about Trajan, though; instead he sensed her uncertainty about her husband and her entire future. She was determined to shape the destiny of the Marked, all the more because she might not be able to shape her own.

It was Roveca who said, “What do you suggest? Besides hope.”

Emeliana smiled. “We can _negotiate_.”

 

**

 

“Negotiate?” Erich had been down for eleven days, just eleven days, and he woke up to find everything ruined. How could the others have been so careless, so naïve? “You can’t be serious.”

Charelius – who of course had heard all of Erich’s thoughts – gave him a look. “What did you think was going to happen? Did you expect us to crown you as emperor?”

Actually Erich had thought Charelius would be better for that role. An emperor with a Mark of Minerva would be nearly invincible. But goaded, he shot back, “And why not? Better me than some unmarked general who gives less of a damn about us than Sebastianus ever did.”

With a sigh, Charelius sat on the edge of their bed. (Although Erich had made it clear that he felt much better, he would admit that it still helped to spend a few hours resting in the middle of the day.) “Emperor Erichthonius.”

“Magnus if they prefer,” Erich said stubbornly.

“You have the power. Now that your Mark is free, I think you could take every soldier’s sword from its scabbard at once. But then what?”

Oh, so he was being _humored._ Erich’s mood turned blacker. “I see to it that no Marked person can ever be kept in slavery. And I end the gladiatorial games, at least those that end in fatalities.” Charelius couldn’t argue with that.

Nor did Charelius try to. He considered, nodded, then said, “What about Dacia?”

That province was many days’ travel from Rome. “What about it?”

“The rebels there have been creating a lot of trouble the past decade or so. With the imperial troops needed in Germania and Africa, Rome can’t afford a war in Dacia. They’ve been paying sums of gold to the Dacian rebels to keep them quiet.”

Erich stared. “How do you know all this?”

“Remember, I spent some months in the keeping of Sebastianus. I learned some of the concerns of an emperor – and they are many. So, Emperor Erichthonius, what will you do? Will you keep paying sums of money that strain even the coffers of Rome, or will you undertake a war you can’t win without pulling your legions out of more valuable territories?”

“We’ll send the Marked out to deal with the Dacians. It won’t take whole legions. Just a few of us can win it, if we send the right ones.”

Charelius nodded. “All right. Then you’re wiling to send the message to Rome’s hundreds of thousands of soldiers that they’re less important. Irrelevant, even.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What about the corn ration?”

“What of it?” Erich snapped. Of all the things to question him about. The corn ration was given to every free Roman male, regardless of wealth or station; this prevented starvation, and the civic unrest that would follow.

“Many people want to increase the ration, and there are many arguments that unmarried women should receive a share as well.”

Women were assumed to be in the keeping of one man or another – a father, a husband, a brother or a son – but of course there were exceptions. Erich had never considered how such women kept themselves fed, were they not rich. “Yes. We should give such women the corn ration as well.”

Charelius looked altogether too satisfied. “So that means you’re ready to squeeze Egypt even harder. Increasing the corn rations means Rome will need far more grain than they already produce. You’ll run the risk of fomenting rebellion.”

Enough of this. “You’re looking for problems.”

“You don’t have to look long for problems, if you’re the emperor of Rome. The problems find you.”

“Why are you making this so difficult?”

“I’m not! It _is_ difficult, which is what I’m trying to get you to see.” Charelius leaned closer, gentling his voice. “Erich, I believe in you completely. You are the strongest and best person I’ve ever known. Yet I realize you don’t possess the knowledge or connections that would make you a successful emperor. Neither do I. Very few people do. And unsuccessful emperors … they end up like Sebastianus, or Nero, or Caligula. I want better than that for you.” His smile was crooked. “After being kept apart from you for so long, I don’t intend to lose you again anytime soon.”

Erich’s anger abated, though not his concern. “We don’t even know this Trajan, or how he will treat us.”

“Scota and Alexander have negotiated on our behalf so far,” Charelius said. “We’re to meet – you and I, and a few other leaders among the Marked – and discuss final terms tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Could he manage to be there – not as an invalid or a shadow of his former self, but as Magnus, the hammer of Vulcan, the one whose power could not be denied?

Erich still felt as though he would rather sit than stand, rather sleep than sit. But he nodded, grim determination setting in. “Tomorrow, then.”

 

**

 

When they set out at midmorning, Erich’s mood was even blacker than it had been the day before – until he saw the first X painted on a door.

The Xs were everywhere. Many were woven from slender stick and branches, a few decorated with the first of the pale green spring leaves. Others were carved into woodwork, inked onto stone. A few wealthier people even wore golden pins in the shape of an X.

“The jewelers wasted no time,” Charelius murmured.

“Why do they still wear them?” Had their symbol not been only for the battle, to tell friend from foe?

“To show their loyalty, and their piety.” A smile began to spread across Charelius’ face. “We’re linked with the entire pantheon, and they know it now. They accept it. Their faith in the gods is now also their faith in us.”

That could not be. It was impossible, to go from slave to demigod almost overnight.

“No, Erich, I feel it.” Charelius responded to the unspoken thought, startling Erich – though immediately he felt silly for having been surprised. From now on, he would have to accustom himself to Charelius’ Mark of Minerva as a part of their daily lives.

Because Charelius would be with him, every day –

The thought buoyed Erich, and gave him strength despite the watery unsteadiness in his knees and gut. Maybe the fate of the entire Empire remained beyond his ability to control, but he could fight for his future with Charelius if he had to.

As they walked they were joined by others – Roveca, who arrived in the guise of a blonde-haired young woman, but shifted into her blue self as she embraced her brother. Lucan and Marina, clearly together even though they could not touch, and Marina finally wearing a bright scarlet stola instead of the black they’d forced her into. Bestius, his fur apparently freshly washed; it was vaguely fluffy, like anyone else’s hair drying after leaving the baths. Armin and Curio, side by side like twins of the spirit, their smiles identical. Aquilina, her wings glittering in the cool spring sun. Aura, her white hair streaming behind her like a banner … and walking near the front, perhaps to remind all who saw them of her Mark of Jupiter. Cassius, Catula, Iuventius, _everyone._

Except Junia.

“Is she coming?” Erich said in a low voice, trusting Charelius ‘ Mark to make it clear who he meant. Were Junia absent, it would be better not to advertise that fact one moment earlier than necessary.

Charelius furrowed his brow, then put two fingers to his temple. After a moment he said, “She’s waiting.”

They saw her when they began to ascend the Palatine Hill. Junia stood near the Domus Augustus, glowing like a second sun. Still she wore her golden robes, and the deep green sash at her waist fluttered in the breeze.

Charelius was still the only one who dared to go up to her as though nothing had changed; he wrapped his arms around her in a hug that would have gotten them both executed a month ago. “You’re here for us,” he murmured. “I knew you would be.”

“I am here to witness,” Junia said. Erich picked up on the difference between their statements; probably Charelius had too, but he gave no sign.

They were met at the door by the brothers of the Sempronii, their armor gleaming. Emeliana stood near them in her white stola, not stepping forward with them but clearly a part of this. Erich did not like how Scota’s helmet with its red glass kept him from reading the man’s expression, but Alexander’s was clear enough. The pride had fallen from him; in its place was something more … thoughtful.

“Do you meet us on Trajan’s behalf, or will you meet him on ours?” Charelius said. His smile made it pleasant, but Erich could hear the strength within. He didn’t even attempt to hide his own answering grin.

Unfazed, Alexander said, “I am of the Marked, and of the army, which means I am in a position to understand both sides of this. Is that enough for you?”

“No,” Erich said. “But tell us where this begins.”

It was Scota who answered. “Trajan has already fully committed himself to our most important proposal – from now on, any person discovered to be Marked is free. We can no longer be enslaved by anyone, for any purpose.”

As much as Erich wanted to keep the edge of his suspicion sharp, he could not help feeling a moment of relief, and happiness. “How committed?” he said, disguising his hope with a scowl.

Scota said, “He will make it official the moment the Senate has confirmed him as emperor. The Senate has already sent word that they will approve this measure.”

Not that it mattered much. Based on what Erich had divined of Roman politics, their Senate had been gelded generations ago. But any proof that the Roman people supported the Marked was another factor Trajan would have to consider.

Charelius said, “What else does he offer, and what else does he want?”

Alexander answered, “He offers rewards to be paid to women who give birth to Marked children, and an increase in the corn ration for any family with a Marked member. He will create at least twenty new senators who are either Marked themselves or who have family members who are, and he will guarantee that at least one provincial governor will be Marked. Furthermore he will build a new pantheon, one meant to thank the gods for Marking some of us here on earth, and priests will sacrifice there regularly.”

This meant their favored place among the Romans would essentially become part of their religion, and thus the state. They would be part of Rome itself. The political standing was important too; even if the Senate was weak, the symbolism would be strong, and a provincial governor – that was real power. What would his life had been like if the governor of Judea or Syria had been Marked, and thus likely to protect him?

Erich did not surrender to his inner hopes. “You haven’t said what he wants.”

“Those males who have Marks useful in combat should serve in the army,” Alexander said. “To strengthen the might of Rome.”

“You turn us into your servants after all,” Erich growled.

But Charelius laid one hand on his arm. “Think about this.”

“What is there to think about? They want to enslave us after all – ”

“Being in the army is not slavery. Military service has not been compulsory since Augustus’ time.” Charelius stepped closer to Alexander, and his blue eyes seemed less beautiful, more piercing. “Or does he plan to conscript us after all?”

“Not conscript,” Scota said. “But the benefits he offers only apply for those who will enlist.”

“What benefits do you mean?” Erich said.

“Citizenship, not upon the end of service but immediately upon enlistment. And land grants, larger than the usual portion. Auxiliaries and legionaries will be equally rewarded.”

So they would not all be made Roman citizens. Erich did not mind this personally – he still had no desire to think of himself as Roman – but he knew that citizenship provided legal rights that were respected throughout the known world.

And if more of the Marked were citizens, their position would be all but guaranteed, forever.

Some Marked people would wish to join the army, of course. Yet Erich remained uneasy, and decided it was time to negotiate further. “For the Marked he should shorten the term of service.”

Most soldiers enlisted for twenty years. Alexander and Scota looked at each other, obviously doubtful about changing something so deeply ingrained.

It was Charelius who picked up the thread. “A shorter term of service will allow soldiers to marry earlier.” Roman soldiers could not marry while in service, Erich recalled. He could not fathom why, as it seemed sure to hurt morale. Charelius continued, “Earlier marriage for these men means they will have larger families, and thus increase the numbers of the Marked. We have seen how the gods favor certain family lines; you two provide proof of it.”

“If we put it to him that way –” Scota began to nod. “Yes. He may well accept that. Or he might grant a special dispensation for all Marked soldiers to marry if they wish.”

“What else?” Alexander said.

_End the games_ , Erich wanted to say. But he knew already this could not be done in a day. The Romans worshipped their games – literally, as they served some obscure religious purposes. The games were how executions were carried out, how punishment was given. A new emperor would have to throw games almost immediately, to win the populace to his side, which meant that even if Trajan might agree to this in the future

_Someday_ , he swore to himself. He said, “Trajan must swear that no Marked person can ever be forced to fight in the arena.”

The Sempronii looked at one another, and Alexander said, “We will ask for no Marked person to fight in the arena except under the circumstances in which any man might be made to fight. We must not proclaim ourselves above the law, and say that they cannot punish us as criminals no matter what they do.”

Erich could see the sense of that – nothing would make their support vanish faster – but he could also see the problems ahead. “The Romans love to watch us in the arena. They think it amusing to make us use our Marks in an effort to stay alive, and they like it all the better if we have to fight one another. Do you not think some of us will find ourselves falsely accused? That every ludus in the Empire will not immediately begin inventing charges against us?”

The bitterness within him felt hot enough to melt stone; it at least dissolved the confidence of Sempronii. “I had not considered that,” Scota said in a tone that made it clear he understood now.

“ _Amissiona_ ,” Junia said.

She had remained so silent and still throughout that Erich had thought she did not intend to speak. Everyone gaped at her, and Charelius took her hand. “You want to outlaw it? Get rid of the stuff?”

“No. There are those who will need it.” Her gaze turned briefly toward Marina, who blushed nearly as red as her stola. “But it must never be hidden in food or water, never burned in a fire to harm us with its smoke. And if any Marked person commits a crime for which he would be condemned to the arena, then he must be dosed with _amissiona_ to the point of having no use of their Mark. Therefore the spectacle will be no different than any other battle, and no one will have reason to wish to see a Marked person fight than any other.”

_Shouldn’t they have their powers with them when they need them most?_

Charelius answered Erich within his own mind. _That would be the same as ensuring that Marked people would always triumph over the unmarked, and so would be less subject to the law. You can see that Junia’s suggestion provides more protection to the Marked than any one Mark ever could. Better to agree now and work on ending the games later._

So Charelius shared his conviction about the games. Erich should have expected as much, yet for some reason Charelius’ determination made Erich believe that it really could happen someday. Someday soon. “That is acceptable,” Erich said.

It only occurred to him then that the others still accepted his leadership, and Charelius’. After years of being forced to wield a sword, Erich would have to learn how to fight entirely new kinds of battles.

But together, perhaps, he and Charelius could find a way.

As they began walking into the Domus Augustus, Erich tried thinking to Charelius – which as far as he could guess just meant thinking on words very hard. _Fighting to the death must stop._

It took a while, but Charelius finally took notice and listened. _I agree. But that isn’t only a question for the Marked. All Romans must be brought together to argue for this._

Erich had never considered finding common cause with other Romans, yet he could see the wisdom of Charelius’ suggestion.

 

But in the thrill of victory, Charelius might have lost sight of too much. Taking Charelius’ hand, , Erich thought, _We can’t assume Trajan will keep his promises, even with representation in the Senate. Emperors have lied their way to the throne before._

_I know that._ The smile faded from Charelius’ face. _The fight the Marked have to win will last more than a day, or a month, or a lifetime. We’re only a part of it. Recognizing that – it doesn’t mean giving up. Just understanding._

Hard as it was to admit it, Erich realized the truth of Charelius’ words. He would have seen it for himself, had he spent the past week and a half analyzing the situation instead of being violently sick. It had simply been too tempting to imagine all their problems solved, a world without unhappiness or risk. But he did not have faith yet, not in Trajan or his pretty promises or any of the rest of this.

_I know we need to be cautious,_ Charelius thought to him. _But try to hope._

Hope wasn’t what Erich was best at. But for Charelius, he would try.

_The gods are finally listening_ , Erich admitted. Besides … _If the Marked serve in the Roman armies in great numbers, the emperor can never turn those armies against us again. We’ll forever hold a share of their military power._

A smile lit up Charelius’ face _. I hadn’t even thought of it, but you’re right._

When Junia had liberated them from their crosses, she had said that they were not to conquer Rome, but to change it. Erich hadn’t been able to understand how that could possibly be true. Now he saw it. The Marked might yet become a part of Rome, but without turning into replicas of their former masters. Instead they could transform the Empire from within.

Junia’s Mark of Venus must have told her what he was thinking, because she turned her head toward his and smiled, like she’d known it all along. And surely she had.

 

**

 

Emeliana knew it had gone well – her common sense and her Mark agreed on that – but by now Trajan and his officers (including Alexander and Scota) were conferring privately. She’d had to return home to wait, and Emeliana _hated_ waiting.

At first she had hoped to while away the time with Charelius; it would be pleasant to talk to him again with no great danger or trouble to discuss. He could be so funny about little things on the street, or wise in matters of the heart. And with his even more powerful Mark of Minerva, maybe he could have told her what Alexander’s decision would be …

Instead, she spun some wool into thread. It was one of those chores any good Roman matron was supposed to enjoy. The wealthiest women made only token efforts at it; Emeliana had done less than even most of these, hardly knowing how to manage more than the basic skill of it. Today, though, she began to see the appeal. There was something mesmerizing about working with the wool, feeling it change against your fingers. Her mind could focus on nothing else, so her worries fell away. All she could think about was the texture of the thread, the smooth wood of the spindle in her hand.

Then she heard footsteps at the door, and rose so quickly the spindle dropped from her hand to clatter on the tile.

“Well?” Emeliana said as she hurried into the great room where Alexander and Scota were handing their cloaks to the servants. “Did Trajan agree to everything?”

“And more besides,” Scota said. His smile reassured her even more than her Mark had been able to do. “Apparently Trajan saw more of the Marked rebellion throughout the Empire; he was eager to establish himself as our friend and ally. And beyond that – I think he may truly accept our standing with the gods.”

Emeliana had not known you could feel weak from relief. In some ways, this went deeper than the joy she’d felt at Sebastianus’ death. She sat heavily on the nearest couch, one hand to her chest. “Then we’ve won?”

“Perhaps,” Alexander said. “I trust Trajan, but like any good general, he’s cagey. Not easily fathomed. That Magnus – Erichthonius – whatever his name is, the gladiator who leads the army of the Marked, he didn’t seem completely persuaded.”

“He didn’t refuse to make peace, did he?” Could Erich undo all the good the others had worked for? Emeliana wanted to like the man, for Charelius’ sake, but he could be as obstinate as an ill-tempered donkey.

“He didn’t refuse. Erich, Charelius and the rest accept the accords for now,” Alexander replied. “We will have to build from here.”

“We’ll have our chance.” Scota’s elation only grew. “Trajan agreed to adopt one of the Marked as his heir. So the next emperor will be Marked.”

The last emperor had been Marked, and Sebastianus’ cruelty had stained them all. Yet Emeliana knew that the Romans remembered other terrible emperors. They would not blame their Marks – particularly not if another Marked emperor took the throne before time had had its chance to muddle memory. “Good,” she said. “That’s good. Charelius and Erich will like that.”

“We haven’t even told you the best part.” Whatever awkwardness Scota had felt about the tangle between the three of them had vanished in his enthusiasm. “Trajan took Alexander aside to talk for a long time afterward … and I suspect we already know who his heir will be.

Emeliana could hardly contain her shock. But even as she gaped at them, she began to see the sense of it. The Sempronii were an old, honored family, related in one way or another to most of the patricians in Rome. Alexander’s service in the army had won him many friends and allies; he would no doubt continue to serve, becoming a general and a leader in his own right, the better to cement his authority. With his equally popular brother by his side, he would be all but unstoppable.

Yet the emotions churning within Alexander now – she was too astonished to truly sort them out, but they did not feel like triumph. More like resignation. Satisfaction, too, but hard-won.

“Yes,” Alexander said. “We know who the next emperor will be. The question is, who is to be our next empress?”

Emeliana stood, ready to receive her dismissal, or “reward,” whichever it might be. Scota went very still.

Alexander remained quiet, watching them, for a few long moments. Then his eyes met hers as he said, “We will divorce.”

Emeliana nodded, accepting this. If she had to endure her father, there was nothing else for it. Divorce arrangements were easily accomplished; as all her money and property was separately hers, finalizing the break was as simple as obtaining documentation. Then she would move out of her house, and back to …

Then Alexander added, “You need not concern yourself with your father. After all, you will be remarried soon.” He turned to Scota, smiling crookedly, like a man in pain. “Am I wrong, brother?”

Scota looked toward Emeliana. The surprise on his face must have been mirrored on her own. For him, however, the conflict was far greater; she could feel how torn he was between them. When he could speak, Scota said, “I told you that we never betrayed you.”

“I know you well enough to believe that,” Alexander said. “Emeliana I do not know, not the way a man should know his wife. The two of you are drawn to each other more powerfully than Emeliana and I will ever be, and I would not stand in the way of my brother’s happiness. I ask only that you wait long enough to be certain she does not carry my child.”

This generosity was for Scota, not for her. But Emeliana did not care. Hope turned out to be nearly as painful as sacrifice. Would Scota accept Alexander’s blessing? Or would he be unwilling to introduce any distance between him and his brother? Emeliana’s emotions ran too hot for her to sense Scota’s, so she did not know what he would do.

There were other considerations, too – marrying an ex-husband’s brother? No law forbade it, but how people would talk. Emeliana cared about this not at all, but she knew many would. Scota might. Or perhaps Alexander’s words about getting her with child, kindly meant though they had been, had reminded Scota of the physical reality of her marriage. The thought of her lying with his brother might be more than Scota could set aside.

The silence in the room seemed terrible to her. Scota remained quiet so long that Emeliana began to believe he did not know what to do. Would he leave her in suspense for weeks, or months?

Then Scota went to Alexander and embraced him. “You are the better man.”

“I could have told you that already,” Alexander replied, but they had begun laughing, the way men laughed when they would not give in to tears.

Emeliana let them take this moment. She was borne aloft on the delicate, unforgettable feeling of surprise turning into joy. It would not do to be openly elated, but she clasped her hands in her lap so tightly that it felt almost as though she were hugging herself. Keeping her lips closed as she smiled took most of her concentration – so she almost missed the moment when Alexander pulled back from his brother and said, “So Emeliana will be empress after all.”

“What?” she blurted out. Scota stared too. Was Alexander already going back on his word?

Alexander’s smile remained wistful. “The next emperor should be clear-sighted. Able to put aside his emotions and hopes when he must, in the name of duty, and of Rome. My foolish trust in Sebastianus has made it clear – I am not that man. But my brother is.”

“You asked Trajan to make _me_ his heir?” Scota put one hand out to steady himself against the nearest column.

“And he has agreed. You are to meet with him tomorrow.” He placed his hands on Scota’s shoulders. “I will remain with you, in the army, in the senate, wherever you need friendship and support. My only goal now is to see you on the throne, where you can protect our people.”

“Alexander, it is too much,” Scota said. His face had gone white, and Emeliana could sense the depth of fear he felt. Any sane man would be afraid of the prospect of becoming emperor – the responsibility and the danger. Yet Rome had been too long without a sane man in charge. Trajan looked promising, but Scota –

Emeliana began to smile as she thought, _Scota might become truly great._

“The two of you must have much to discuss,” Alexander said. He ducked his head, in that moment more like an embarrassed boy than a soldier. “And I should meet with the troops. Make sure all remains well.”

Although Scota could only nod, Emeliana rose and held out her hands; after a moment’s hesitation, Alexander took them.

“You have been – more than generous,” she said.

Alexander nodded, obviously unable to find more words.

“I hope in the years to come …” What did she hope for? Emeliana realized that, if she and Scota were to be together, Alexander would nonetheless remain a part of her life forever. “I hope we’ll come to know each other as friends. And that you’ll find a woman you can love as a wife.”

He breathed out heavily. “I hope so too.” Alexander didn’t smile, yet she knew he was accepting this. Moving forward.

Toward a future so bright for her and for Scota that Emeliana could hardly believe it –

After Alexander left them, for a few long moments Scota simply stood there, looking at her in what seemed to be wonder. She expected him to say something about the staggering news that he would be Trajan’s heir, but instead he whispered, “You would have me?”

“Did you not know that? Of course I would.” Emeliana’s smile finally became free. “Do you think me indelicate? Because I would marry again so soon?”

“I could not blame you for feelings I share.” Scota came closer, but did not take her hand. “You must realize that my Mark is a difficult one to live with. Any time I’m without my helmet, my eyes must remain shut, or else I could hurt you.”

“If you’ve learned to live with it, so can I.” She felt a slight pang at realizing that she would never be able to look into his eyes as they made love, but touch mattered so much more than sight. As Emeliana imagined it, she thought she might finally learn what all the fuss about sex was really about …

Scota finally began to smile. “Do you think Alexander will go to the magistrate today?”

She laughed. “Surely he has too much to do today to worry about finalizing the divorce!” But it delighted her, to think of Scota so impatient. “Why so rushed?”

He stepped closer. “There are many things I wouldn’t do with my brother’s wife that I would be very happy to do with my betrothed.”

A kiss, to begin with, and then so much more. Desire radiated from him – or was that her? They yearned for each other in the exact same way. Yet she knew that propriety was more important now than ever. Scota’s eagerness at this moment might come to seem dishonorable to him when he remembered it years later. She wanted him to come to her without any doubts, any regrets.

“Your wedding night will come soon enough,” Emeliana murmured. If they were to hold true to this vow, they needed a distraction – and surely they had one. “Trajan’s heir.”

He took a deep breath. “So it seems.”

“You’re calmer than I would be, in your place.”

“Perhaps I don’t really believe it yet,” Scota admitted. His expression turned grave. “You realize I will gain enemies and rivals long before I gain any real authority.”

“But you will also gain a wife.” Delight bubbled up inside her as the possibilities multiplied, each of them sparkling like the facets of her diamond form. “A wife with a Mark of Minerva, who can protect you against any conspiracy.”

“You know that I love you for yourself. Not your Marks.”

He had never said that he loved her before, and yet Emeliana had already known. Just as she knew this: “And I love you.”

 

**

 

The announcements were cried in the forum, posted near the temples and on the rostrum. So everyone knew now where the Marked stood – which seemed to be in a very good place. Many had etched or painted Xs near the notices, to show their support. Already dozens, if not hundreds, of the Marked had enlisted in the army.

Neptune would walk on dry land before Lucan joined up.

“You aren’t required to,” admitted Scota as they walked side by side, uneasy allies. “Even if service had been made mandatory, they could not conscript you. You’ve been in Roman captivity for three decades, and so you are … over the maximum age for a centurion.”

Of course Lucan looked like he was still in his prime, but all that conscientious Roman record-keeping was finally paying off for him. “An old man like me, I gotta take it easy.”

Although Scota’s expression could hardly be read behind his red visor, Lucan could well imagine the glare. “You’re stronger than virtually any of us. Nearly undefeatable in battle. Perhaps immortal.”

“Which means I get to take a nice long retirement. Listen, bub, I’m glad the Romans and the Marked are getting along. But me? I’ve done my time and then some.”

Instead of the argument he’d expected, Lucan received a slow nod from Scota. “After what you’ve endured – no one could blame you for refusing to serve under the eagles. I only hoped the potential rewards might sway you.”

Lots of gold could be made by a good soldier, and it wasn’t arrogance for Lucan to assume he’d be one of the best. He didn’t care. “The only reward I want is my freedom. It’s been too long in coming. I intend to enjoy it.”

“You deserve no less,” Scota said. Which was fair, but – stiff. So this guy was going to be emperor someday. Huh. He looked like he was half statue already, in Lucan’s opinion, but whathappened in Rome was about to be none of his damn business any longer.

They had met on the way as they walked toward the House of the Vestals, having discovered that Junia had summoned them both. For what, neither could guess, but Lucan figured the lady knew her own mind. (And his, and everyone else’s – her Mark of Venus was nearly as strong as Charelius’ Mark of Minerva.) When they arrived, Junia wasn’t yet there, but Charelius sat on the steps. He grinned to see them. “I didn’t know you two were friends.”

Scota and Lucan looked at each other. Lucan might’ve been offended by the dismay on Scota’s face if he hadn’t known he was sending it right back. “We just met,” Lucan said. “Junia invited you along too?”

“I wonder what she wants?” Charelius remained the only one not discomfited by Junia’s new, unearthly nature. He acted as though she might have asked them over for dinner.

“Only to see you all again.” They turned to see Junia walking from the House of the Vestals, her golden robes streaming behind her. Though her voice still held that strange resonance, her smile looked more human than it had since …

… _since she died_ , Lucan forced himself to think. _Yeah, it’s pretty weird, but since when has your life not been weird?_

Charelius rose to his feet to kiss her on the cheek; her long red hair, flowing free in the unseen wind around her, brushed against Charelius’ cheek and shoulder. “You can always see us whenever you like.”

Junia didn’t seem to have heard him. “I wanted you here, Lucan, because you were there when I was captured – when in my heart I gave up the human life I had before. Scota, you were there when I rose again, sent back to earth by the pantheon. And Charelius – it was with you that I first learned how powerful my Mark of Venus could be. Your mind touched mine, and it was the only touch I ever really knew. So the three of you should be here now.”

“What’s this about?” Lucan didn’t like where this was heading. “You’re not – sick or something?” Maybe the gods had only sent her back to the world of mortals for so long. Sounded like the kind of cheap trick the gods would play.

Her smile only widened. “Not sick at all. But – I don’t belong in this world any longer. Not only this world. There are realms and worlds beyond our own, and I feel them calling me.”

“You’re not dying?” Charelius took her hand, and his expression shifted from fear to understanding. “You’re going away. Somewhere no mortal could ever follow.”

Junia nodded. “I don’t know what I’ll find, but I’m not afraid. I think it might even be – beautiful.”

“Will you come back?” Scota asked.

“I can’t be sure. But I hope so.”

This didn’t sound like a real solid plan, in Lucan’s opinion, but he kept his mouth shut. Junia was more powerful than all the rest of ‘em put together; if she thought she could handle whatever she might find, well, then, probably she could.

“I wish you would stay a while longer,” Charelius said. By now both of his hands were wrapped around one of hers. “Your power – that’s what makes Erich think we can trust Trajan after all, and if he loses faith now – ”

“He must find his own faith, and I think he’ll find it in you.” Junia looked from Charelius to Scota and Lucan. “The three of you were all with me at important moments in my life, but you have more in common besides that. You’ve all found love – an extraordinary love – and kept it despite everything you’ve been through. Every separation, every obstacle: None of them had the power to make you give up those you loved most.”

Damned embarrassing to have Junia talking about his feelings for Marina in the middle of the Forum, but Lucan tried not to let it show. “Yeah, well, I appreciate the good thoughts, but I figure we all knew that already.”

Junia nodded. “And yet you could still let your loves slip away. Scota, you nearly surrendered Emeliana for the sake of honor. Lucan, you denied your love for Marina as long as you could, because you thought you were protecting yourself. Charelius, you and Erich have already quarreled over the future of the empire and your places in it. Right now, all of you have found your way back together – but I wanted to tell you to take care. Don’t assume the danger is gone, or that you cannot lose even that which is most precious to you. You are beloved of the gods, all of you, and in your happiness lie the seeds of a better future for the entire empire.”

Charelius laughed softly. “Believe me, I’d never let Erich easily. Ever. Did you already have this talk with him? And Marina, and Emeliana?”

Junia’s smile broadened again. “Erich wouldn’t listen to me, only to you. As for Marina and Emeliana, they already know without having to be told.”

Lucan would have liked to take offense, but he figured Junia was right.

“Speak to me, if you can, wherever you are.” Tears had begun to well in Charelius’ eyes. “Maybe our Marks of the gods will let us find each other even in different worlds.”

“I hope that will be true.” Junia kissed Charelius’ forehead. Lucan found himself remembering how it had been just a couple of years ago, when Charelius was a downtrodden slave boy and Junia had been one of the most exalted people in Rome. Yet they had become friends – deep friends – despite all that.

Maybe she really could talk to Charelius from another world, Lucan thought. They’d crossed great distances before.

Junia stepped back, and the strange wind around her seemed to stir and strengthen, until her golden robes whipped around her like flames. Then she soared upward into the sky, farther than she or anyone had ever flown before. Her robes mingled with the light overhead until the sun itself seemed to twist and turn.

“She’s gone.” Scota sounded as if he were in shock. Lucan couldn’t blame the guy.

Despite the tears in his eyes, Charelius smiled. “Not here now, but not gone forever. Junia always returns.”

 

**

 

Later that day, when Lucan told Marina about it, she took it worse than Charelius had. It was several minutes before she was done crying – but she’d had a little _amissiona_ this morning, enough for him to hold her as she wept.

“I just can’t believe she’s gone,” Marina said for about the eighth time. “I thought I’d have more time to thank her. Talk with her. Just – be friends without Sebastianus’ crazy getting in the way.”

“Junia’s where she wants to be. About time all of us got a chance to go where we want to go. Pick our own futures.” Lucan was less certain about this next, but the time had come to say it. “Do you want to stay in Rome?”

Marina turned her face up to his. Her eyes were red, her nose redder, and he still thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Damn, he had it bad. “I don’t know. Not really, but – it’s not like I can go home again either. After my parents sold me off, I just can’t.”

“I hear you.” Lucan tightened his arm around her shoulders. “Did I ever tell you how pretty Belgicae is in the springtime?”

Slowly she began to smile. “Yeah, you did. But you’re about to tell me again, aren’t you?”

“Wildflowers everywhere you look. Forests that keep the ground cool even in summertime.”

“You don’t care about wildflowers,” Marina said. “You want to go back to your people.”

“Not many of the ones I knew will still be alive. The ones that are – well, they won’t be very young.” It didn’t matter. All Lucan knew was that after long decades in this godforsaken place, he could finally go home. “They’d welcome us. I still speak the language, and I’d teach you. By now a fair number of them know Latin too, I’d bet.”

“We wouldn’t have our choice of insula anymore.” Marina sing-songed her objections, making it clear she wasn’t that concerned. “No marble temples, no forum.”

“Nope. I’d hunt for most of what we ate. Tan the hides for our shoes and belts. I’d get you a goat or two for milk, and maybe we could buy some sheep. We’d build a home for ourselves out of timber and peat, with a hole in the center so the smoke rises and our air stays clean. Warm in winter, cool in summer, and all ours. Yours and mine.”

She hooked her arms around his neck. “There’s one important question you haven’t brought up yet.”

Uh-oh. Was Marina going to have a problem with this after all? Lucan had been so certain she wouldn’t – but if she wanted to stay here, he’d stay. First he had to find out what the difficulty was. “Hit me.”

“… how much _amissiona_ can we bring with us?”

Marina could no longer hold back her smile, and Lucan didn’t even try, spinning her onto their cot as she laughed. He pretended to pounce over her, and he growled, “As much as I can carry. And I can carry a lot.”

“Good,” she whispered, before drawing him down for a kiss.

 

**

 

Charelius flopped onto his back, breathing hard. His entire body thrummed in the aftermath of pleasure; he loved even the aches and bruises he felt. Best of all was the sight of Erich lying next to him, his entire naked body splayed out for Charelius to admire. Their skin was still soft with the oil they had used while making love.

“Mmmm.” Erich’s head lolled over to look at Charelius. “I always hated having to leave you every night, but I would have hated it even more if I’d known what you were like in the mornings.”

“Me? And who woke who up this morning with a cock so hard and eager – ”

Erich silenced him with a swift kiss. “It was me today. But it was you yesterday, and the day before that.”

_And tomorrow_ , Charelius thought.

Always, before, their times together had been rare and precious – jewels strung far apart on a long chain. Now their days and nights flowed on, yesterday and today and tomorrow and beyond that without ceasing. It was very nearly everything Charelius could have wanted.

“You’re smiling,” Erich murmured. “What are you thinking of?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“I want to know so I can be sure to do it again.”

Charelius laughed as he rolled over, propping himself up so that he could look down into Erich’s face. How good it was to see him smile more than frown. “Actually, I was thinking – it’s been too long since we visited the baths of Nero.”

Within ten minutes they were walking together on the streets of Rome. The faint sheen of oil still brightened their skin, and Charelius wondered how many people walking by realized what they’d been up to just moments before. But while several took notice of them, they all obviously recognized Charelius and Erich as leaders of the army of the Marked. Passers-by nodded, smiled, even bowed – and many of them pointed to Xs embroidered on their stolae or tunics.

Erich noticed it too, but his mood darkened. “They want to curry favor with us.”

“Some do, yes,” Charelius agreed, careful to keep his voice even. “But most of them mean it. They acknowledge what the gods have done, now, and the need to honor that.”

“Already so quick to trust Rome,” Erich muttered. “You would think the past two years never happened, or any of the wretched lives we led before that.”

Charelius took his hand. “It’s not Rome I trust. It’s us. Everything we’ve done, everything we’ve managed to change. I believe in our Marks. Our strength.”

Although Erich nodded, he wasn’t convinced. Charelius found himself remembering Junia’s words of caution. No external force would ever pull them apart again, but he and Erich could be separated by their own quarrels and fears, unless they worked hard to resolve them.

“Think of the miracles we’ve worked so far,” Charelius said, squeezing Erich’s fingers more tightly. “If we were able to rise up from slavery, from imprisonment – from the very crosses they’d tied us on – then nothing can stop us. Not if we remain strong.”

Erich’s black mood didn’t entirely dissipate – but when he smiled at Charelius, the smile was real.

From the nearby crowd came the call, “Hello there!” They turned to see Emeliana being carried through the streets on her litter; she’d pulled back the translucent white curtains to wave at them, beckoning them closer.

“Look at her,” Erich growled.

“Hush.”

Although he would have said this in any case, Charelius actually meant it. Most highborn Roman women who traveled in litters had only two or four bearers; Emeliana had eight, meaning they were not overburdened.

Charelius went to her. “Domina.”

She made a face. “Oh, hush. You know you don’t have to call me that any longer.”

“I hear I’m eventually to call you Augusta,” Charelius said, using the traditional honorific for empresses. “If I don’t get used to domina again, the shock might be too much for me.”

“You’re to call me Emeliana from now on, regardless of anything,” she said. “And if we’re lucky enough to take the Domus Augustus after Trajan, then the two of you will be among our first and most honored guests.”

“We’ll be delighted.” He was well aware that in Erich’s case, _delighted_ was probably overstating the case. But surely he could see the value of keeping the next emperor and his wife as friends and allies. A dinner or two wasn’t too much to ask.

“Do you see the Emperor Trajan much?” Erich’s voice was even, reasonable. However, Charelius could sense the doubt beneath his words – the fear that Trajan had already separated himself from the Marked.

If Emeliana’s Mark of Minerva told her of Erich’s doubts, she gave no sign. “I last saw him two days ago; Scota is with him even now. So far they’re still mostly concentrating on integrating the new Marked soldiers into the legions. Time to discuss bigger plans later.”

“What do you mean?” Erich demanded.

“Well, you know I’ve always loathed the games. But there was never anything I could do besides throw a few nice parties to help you while away the hours.” Emeliana’s smile grew mischievous. “But now Scota and I are in a position to encourage Trajan to cut back on them. To amuse the crowds with more chariot races and theatrical shows, fewer fights in the arena. Within two or three years, perhaps we could have done with them altogether.”

How beautiful that would be. Charelius beamed at her – but even better was the slow wonder dawning inside Erich.

Emeliana continued, “Of course, I’ll probably have to become empress before I can work on my real plan.”

Erich and Charelius shared a look before Charelius said, “Real plan?”

“Eventually we have to put an end to slavery itself. I realize the economic consequences will be tremendous – but if a man can afford to buy and house and clothe slaves, he can afford to pay free men’s labor. And workers who can marry and travel and live as they wish, why, they’ll be happier and work better! I believe it will strengthen the entire empire, in the end. But the planning – oh, that’s going to take a while.” Emeliana put her hand to her forehead, as though she were tired just thinking about it. “Speaking of coming to dinner, why don’t the two of you visit us soon? I’ll send an invitation via messenger.”

“We’d love to,” Charelius managed to say.

With that, Emeliana gestured to her bearers, who took her on through the city. Erich murmured, “Dinner at her house?”

“Come now. You should remember – good things happen when Emeliana sends messengers with party invitations.”

That made Erich grin, even as he said, “Ending slavery? All slavery?”

“It sounds impossible.” Charelius couldn’t even envision what the world would look like then. Yet it was beautiful to think that Emeliana intended to try – and that his former domina, once so giddy and thoughtless, had become a crusader. Her dreams were ambitious as any of theirs – maybe more.

What mattered most was the fact that Erich was finally, slowly, beginning to hope.

In the baths, they hurried through the initial frigidarium dip so they could soak in the warm water side by side. Charelius washed Erich’s hair for him, then leaned his head back so Erich could take his turn, massaging Charelius’ scalp, then his neck, then his back –

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Charelius murmured. “Not at the baths.”

“I’ll be a good boy, then,” Erich said, relaxing to float by Charelius’ side. “What next?”

“Dinner at Emeliana’s, I suppose – “

“No. I mean, what becomes of us, after this. I know we will be together – and nothing else matters much, beyond that – yet we still have to choose where and how to live. Do you want to return to Britannia?”

Charelius shook his head. He and Roveca had discussed this just last night. “Our families are gone. Our town destroyed. Honestly, I hardly remember how to live there, and even the language has started to slip from me. There’s no point. What about you? Do you want to return to Judea?”

“For now I think we should remain in Rome.”

That surprised Charelius; knowing how Erich loathed the place, he’d assumed they would soon be traveling as far from here as possible. But as he considered it, he understood. “You want to stay close to Trajan, and to Scota and Emeliana. Hold them to their word.”

“We fought for many things, but above all, to make our own fate.” Erich sighed. “Even if you and I aren’t taking power ourselves, we still have to watch. To remain close and careful, so that our fates are never beyond our control again.”

Charelius nodded, sensing the rightness of it. He began to smile. “So you’ll be apprenticing yourself to an armorer after all.”

“A blacksmith, I think. I’ve had enough of armor and swords for a lifetime.”

At long last, Erich could lay his weapons down. He could live a peaceful life – a happy life – the one he should always have been able to call his own. Overcome, Charelius leaned toward Erich and kissed him, long and sweet.

When their lips parted, Erich whispered, “Not at the baths.”

“Then we’d better rush home, hadn’t we?”

Hurriedly they scraped each other’s backs and dried off. As they began dressing themselves, a roll of thunder warned of a storm to come. “What about after?” Charelius said as he slid his feet back into his sandals.

“After what?”

“After Trajan proves himself, or Scota and Emeliana rule – whatever it would take for you to feel that the Marked are truly safe.” That day would come; Charelius had to believe that. “What then?”

Erich didn’t argue. He only smiled. “Whatever you wish, wherever you would go.”

Anywhere? “You know – there are Greek islands where bonds between two men are treated exactly the same as marriages between men and women.”

“Are there?” Erich’s grin broadened. “You know, I went to Greece, during our time apart. It’s beautiful.”

Charelius couldn’t wait to see it.

No sooner had they walked out of the baths than rain began to pour down. People swore, pulled their robes over their heads or ducked under arches or awnings. Charelius and Erich just ran, laughing, trying to get to their own home and bed as fast as they could.

As they dashed through the streets, Charelius found himself remembering another time he had run through the rain – the night of their first kiss. Then he had known he had to return to slavery, to Lucius Emelianus, and even so he had been giddy with happiness. Now Charelius was running alongside Erich, knowing they would never be parted, and he felt as if he could fly.

 

 

THE END

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for "Pantheon"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124949) by [avictoriangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avictoriangirl/pseuds/avictoriangirl)




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